•• 


. 


THE    SENSATIONALISTS:       III 

THE  SECRET  VICTORY 
STEPHEN        McKENNA 


BY  STEPHEN   McKENNA 

THE  SENSATIONALISTS 

PAET  ONK:    LADY  LILITH 

PART  Two:     THE   EDUCATION   OF 

ERIC  LANE 
PART  THREE:    THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

SONIA  MARRIED 

SONIA 

MIDAS  AND  SON 

NINETY-SIX  HOURS'  LEAVE 

THE  SIXTH  SENSE 

SHEILA  INTERVENES 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE 
SECRET  VICTORY 


BY 
STEPHEN  McKENNA 

AUTHOR  OF  "LADY  LILITH,"  "SONIA  MARRIED," 

"THE  EDUCATION  OF  ERIC  LANE,"  "SONIA," 

"NINETY-SIX  HOURS'  LEAVE,"  ETC. 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.   DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 

ALEXANDER  TEIXEIRA  DE  MATTOS 

WITH   GRATITUDE 
TO 

TEX 

WITH   LOVE 


2137065  * 


Epistle  Dedicatory 

TO   ALEXANDER   TEIXEIRA   DE   MATTOS 

You,  who  have  read  the  three  volumes  of  The  Sensational- 
ists in  manuscript,  place  me  under  further  obligation  by 
allowing  me  to  dedicate  the  third  to  you  in  commemoration 
of  a  friendship  which  has  been  long,  intimate  and — to  me — 
unmatched.  Though  I  acquit  you  of  responsibility  for 
shortcomings  in  anything  that  I  have  written,  the  tale  of 
these  shortcomings  would  have  been  far  longer  if  I  had 
not  availed  myself  of  your  unfailing  vigilance  and  ever- 
ready  help,  as  I  have  profited  by  your  sensitive  criticism 
and  sympathetic  encouragement. 

The  novel-trilogy  is  so  little  acclimatized  to  latter-day 
Georgian  England  that,  though  it  may  need  no  defence, 
it  has  provoked  attacks  from  readers  who  will  suffer  all 
artistic  forms  but  those  which  are  offered  to  the  public  in 
his  present  majesty's  reign;  I  say  no  more  in  its  apology 
than  that  it  provides  a  convenient  medium  for  a  study  in 
which  the  story-teller  occupies,  in  succession,  three  different 
standpoints.  In  Lady  Lilith,  the  emotion  hunters  and  sen- 
sation-mongers who  supply  the  drama  of  this  trilogy  are  still 
practising  their  poses  in  mirrored  and  passionless  detach- 
ment ;  in  The  Education  of  Eric  Lane,  artifice  has  grown  to 
such  strength  that,  in  its  contest  with  reality,  the  battle — 
between  antagonists  no  longer  detached  nor  passionless — 
stands  drawn;  in  The  Secret  Victory,  a  close  contact  with 
reality  deflates  the  tumid  pretensions  of  artifice  and  forces 
an  amateur  company  of  tragi-comedians  into  the  revealing 
daylight  of  the  open  street.  Even  if  it  had  been  possible 
to  present  these  three  phases  in  a  single  volume,  I  should 
have  been  sorry  to  lose  the  interval  which  bridged  the 
transition  from  one  phase  to  another. 


viii  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 

Whether  a  study  of  flamboyantly  conscious  egotism  de- 
serves three  volumes  can  hardly  be  decided  impartially  by 
one  who  has  attempted  the  study ;  but  the  novelist  has  at  no 
time  been  more  insistently  urged  to  contemplate  unabashed 
egotism  than  in  an  age  when  the  camera  and  the  printing- 
press,  the  public  confession  and  the  private  conversation, 
the  conclusions  of  psychology  and  the  phantasies  of  psycho- 
analysis combine  forces  to  further  the  cult  of  personality. 
"Ninety-five  per  cent,  of  the  human  race,"  said  Mr.  Cutler 
Walpok  in  The  Doctor's  Dilemma,  "suffer  from  chronic 
blood-poisoning,  and  die  of  it.  It's  as  simple  as  A.  B.  C. 
Your  nuciform  sac  is  full  of  decaying  matter.  .  .  ."  Ninety- 
five  per  centum  would  seem  a  modest  estimate  for  the  pro- 
portion of  the  human  race  which,  in  one  social  division  of 
England  at  the  present  time,  is  dying  spiritually  of  acute 
egomania. 

In  reading  the  manuscript  of  this  trilogy  you  encountered 
characters  whom  you  had  met  in  earlier  novels ;  if  at  some 
future  time  you  have  the  patience  to  read  those  later  novels 
which  have  been  executed,  or  at  least  planned,  but  not  yet 
published,  you  are  more  than  likely  to  meet  some  of  them 
again.  The  practice  of  carrying  certain  characters  from  one 
book  to  another  is  hardly  so  much  an  arrogant  assumption 
that  the  public  has  made  their  acquaintance  in  a  former 
presentation  as  an  effort  to  give  additional  verisimilitude  to 
a  picture  which  is  being  built  up  in  sections  :  an  academic  his- 
tory of  the  years  before  the  war,  of  the  war  itself  and  of 
the  years  following  it  would  inevitably  introduce,  in  volume 
after  volume,  some  at  least  of  the  same  warriors,  states- 
men, financiers  and  social  leaders ;  if,  in  an  imaginary  pic- 
ture of  the  same  period,  the  novelist  offends  by  following 
the  same  method,  he  offends  in  the  consoling  company  of 
Balzac,  Disraeli  and  Thackeray  among  the  dead  and  of 
Galsworthy  and  Mackenzie  among  the  living. 

To  you  I  need  offer  no  excuse  for  having  hitherto  confined 
myself  for  the  most  part  to  men  and  women  whose  means 
and  leisure  enable  them  to  be  occupied  with  public  affairs 
or  preoccupied  with  private  introspection :  as  human  beings, 


EPISTLE  DEDICATORY  ix 

susceptible  to  pain  and  pleasure,  they  are  not  less  interesting 
than  those  who  devote  a  greater  proportion  of  their  time  to 
the  struggle  for  existence ;  in  the  opinion  of  some,  they  may 
win  an  added  interest  by  the  larger  air  of  a  more  spacious 
life  and  by  the  subtile  discrimination  of  wider  intellectual 
sympathies;  if  a  novelist  offends  by  neglecting  the  narrow 
streets  and  sunless  cottages  of  this  era,  he  offends  once  more 
in  the  company  of  Disraeli  and  Thackeray. 

The  present  volume  of  The  Sensationalists  brings  the 
trilogy  to  an  end ;  the  reception  accorded  to  the  first  volumes 
was  too  evenly  mixed  to  indicate  how  the  third  will  be 
greeted;  but,  since  all  three  books  were  planned  and  com- 
pleted as  one  whole  before  the  first  was  published,  it  is  as  one 
whole  that  I  should  like  them  to  be  judged.  Jointly  and 
severally,  however,  their  fate  is  of  less  importance  to  me 
than  the  pleasure  which  I  derived  from  writing  them ;  and, 
in  the  present  volume,  no  words  give  me  greater  pleasure 
than  those  on  the  dedication  page. 

Ever  yours, 

STEPHEN  MCKENNA. 
Lincoln's  Inn, 
24  August,  1921, 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    VIGIL „•    .,    ,.,    w     15 

II    DAWN ,„    >„    „    38 

III  THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD    .     ,     .     .     59 

IV  EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS      .     .     .     ;.;     .     -.     .     79 
V  THE  PRICE  OF  SYMPATHY      ......     95 

VI    THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY 1 1 1 

VII    A  DOUBLE  RESCUE ,.     .     .   125 

VIII  HALF-HONEYMOON       ....     .     .     .     .  152 

IX    A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE ,.:    .     .     .   181 

X  THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL     .....  210 

XI    MIRAGE ,.,..:..,.  228 

XII    NIGHT 248 

XIII  JOURNEY'S  END 276 

XIV  VIGIL „.     .     i     i.,     ..     .     .  291 


THE  SECRET  VICTORY 


'There  is  no  God;  but  still,  behind  the  veil, 
The  hurt  thing  works,  out  of  its  agony. 
Still  like  the  given  cruse  that  did  not  fail 
Return  the  pennies  given  to  passers-by. 
There  is  no  God ;  but  we,  who  breathe  the  air, 
Are  God  ourselves,  and  touch  God  everywhere." 

— JOHN  MASEFIELD:  Lollingdon  Downs, 


THE  SECRET  VICTORY 


CHAPTER  ONE 

VIGIL 

"Though  your  wife  ran  away  with  a  soldier  that  day, 

And  took  with  her  your  trifle  of  money; 
Bless  your  heart,  they  don't  mind — they're  exceedingly  kind — 
They  don't  blame  you — as  long  as  you're  funny!" 

W.  S.  GILBERT:  "THE  FAMILY  FOOL." 

ROUSED  by  a  report  of  peace  hardly  less  deafening  than 
the  crash  of  war  four  and  a  half  years  earlier,  the  winter 
garden  of  the  Majestic  hummed  like  a  vast  and  airless  bee- 
hive. On  the  long  sofas  by  the  walls,  in  deferential  clusters 
round  some  slow-voiced,  arm-chair  oracle  and  in  wavering 
groups  at  one  moment  distinct  and  at  another  herded  to- 
gether, everybody  who  could  find  room  between  the  crowded 
tables  and  the  obtrusive  palm-tubs  eagerly  volleyed  question 
and  answer,  contributing  his  pennyworth  of  gossip  and  re- 
tiring with  his  pound  of  rumour. 

No  one  in  New  York  had  seriously  doubted  that  Germany 
would  accept  the  armistice  terms ;  but,  until  they  were  signed, 
the  talk  of  private  dinners  and  public  celebrations  remained 
half-hearted.  Now  that  the  invitations  had  been  discharged, 
no  one  knew  what  to  do  next.  One  group  of  lean,  sagacious 
officers  debated  how  soon  they  would  be  demobilized  and  re- 
stored to  their  businesses ;  a  harassed  parliament  of  women 
exchanged  acid  confidences  about  the  apartments  which  they 
had  taken  when  their  husbands  came  to  New  York  for  the 
war ;  a  second  and  a  younger  group  of  officers  deplored  the 

15 


1 6  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

untimely  cessation  of  hostilities  before  they  had  seen  any 
fighting. 

"  'All-dressed-up-and-nowhere-to-go,' "  hummed  one. 
"Why,  Carstairs,  when  did  you  get  here  ?" 

He  shook  hands  with  an  agitated  young  Englishman  who 
was  peering  over  the  heads  and  under  the  arms  of  his  neigh- 
bours. 

"Hullo,  Long!  I  left  Washington  last  night.  You've 
not  seen  my  wife,  have  you?" 

"Lady  John  was  over  by  the  far  door  a  while  back.  I'll 
shew  you." 

He  took  Carstairs  by  the  arm  and  dragged  him  through 
the  crowd  to  a  corner  where  a  young  woman  had  entrenched 
herself  behind  a  row  of  palm-tubs  and  a  breastwork  of  wicker 
chairs. 

"Much  obliged.  I  say,  what  about  a  drink?  Oh,  of 
course,  you're  not  allowed  to.  Never  mind,  there's  a  good 
time  ahead  of  you  as  soon  as  you're  out  of  uniform.  By 
the  way,  we're  coming  to  your  dinner.  Very  good  of  you 
to  ask  us." 

The  officer  bowed  and  went  back  to  his  own  group.  Car- 
stairs  dropped  limply  into  a  chair  and  rang  a  bell. 

"God,  what  a  mob!  And  what  a  day!  I  haven't  had  a 
moment  to  myself.  The  horrors  of  peace!" 

His  wife  pressed  his  hand  sympathetically,  and  the  gold  of 
a  new  wedding-ring  caught  and  flung  back  the  light  from  the 
great  arc-lamps. 

"Could  you  do  anything  about  our  passages?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  wandered  into  the  chancery  and  got  them  to  make 
up  a  bag.  After  that  there  was  no  difficulty,  but  the  boat 
will  be  ankle-deep  in  Ministry  of  Munitions  people  and 
Treasury  people  and  Propaganda  people.  There  are  more 
English  officials  than  Americans  in  New  York  to-day. 
Precious  glad  every  one  will  be  to  get  rid  of  us!  By  the 
way,  Sadler  Long  wants  to  give  us  a  farewell  dinner  at  the 


VIGIL  17 

Biltmore;  I  said  you  weren't  doing  anything.  Was  that  all 
right?" 

"Is  it  to-night?" 

"No.  We're  dining  with  Grant  to-night  at  the  Plaza. 
It's  a  farewell  dinner  to  Eric  Lane,  the  dramatist  fellow. 
The  great  American  people  will  be  both  tired  and  dyspeptic 
by  the  time  it's  given  a  farewell  dinner  to  every  munition- 
contractor,  exchange-stabilizer  and  itinerant  lecturer  in  the 
country." 

"I  want  to  meet  Mr.  Lane,"  said  Lady  John. 

"Well,  you'll  have  every  opportunity  on  the  boat.  I  can't 
say  /  do." 

A  waiter  came  to  their  table  with  two  cocktails.  Car- 
stairs  signed  for  them,  lighted  a  cigarette  and  leaned  back 
with  one  leg  thrown  over  the  other.  On  the  far  side  of  the 
serried  palm-tubs  and  wicker  chairs,  an  English  voice  said: 

"Waiter!     I  ordered  a  Number  Twenty-Three." 

"Number  Twenty-Three,"  repeated  the  waiter,  turning  his 
head  for  an  instant  in  full  flight. 

Eric  Lane  nodded  and  pretended  to  read  his  paper,  re- 
fusing to  be  driven  from  a  comfortable  chair  because  a 
strange  Englishman,  with  the  notorious  tact  of  the  English, 
chose  to  discuss  him  by  name  at  two  yards'  distance.  Until 
three  minutes  before,  he  had  been  agreeably  lulled  by  the  high 
hum  of  American  voices ;  but  this  drawling  English,  with  a 
hint  of  impatient  superiority  in  it,  assailed  and  defeated  him. 
He  was  also  humanly  curious  to  know  what  the  strange 
Englishman  had  heard  or  thought  about  him. 

"I  like  his  plays,"  said  Lady  John.  "Is  there  anything 
against  him?" 

Lane  decided  that  she  must  be  a  New  Englander.  Then 
he  recalled  his  glimpse  of  the  underhung,  impatient  English- 
man and  remembered  that  Frances  Nay  lor  of  Boston  had 
married  Lord  John  Carstairs  six  months  earlier.  The  match 
had  caused  nearly  a  week's  excitement,  for  Carstairs  was 


i8  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

brother  and  heir-presumptive  to  the  imbecile  Duke  of  Ross, 
while  Frances  Naylor  was  a  future  heiress  and  a  present 
beauty. 

"Oh,  I've  no  objection  to  him  personally,"  said  Carstairs. 
"But  I  don't  suppose  we're  very  popular  with  him  as  a 
family.  There  was  a  blighted  romance  between  him  and  my 
cousin,  Barbara  Neave."  He  laughed,  and  Eric  Lane  felt 
his  cheeks  warming.  "I'm  afraid  you'll  find  Barbara — and 
her  relicts  and  reputation — rather  a  mouthful." 

Not  for  the  first  time  Frances  Carstairs  wished  that  the 
English  had  fewer  relations.  She  had  been  bewilderingly 
initiated  into  the  complex  family  tangle  of  the  Neaves  and 
Lorings,  the  Carstairs  and  Knightriders ;  John  had  drawn 
her  ingenious  plans  to  shew  who  had  married  whom,  but 
every  new  name  impaled  her  on  a  new  genealogical  tree,  so 
that  she  openly  dreaded  her  arrival  in  England  and  the 
threatened  tour  of  inspection  among  her  husband's  manifold 
connections. 

"But  I  thought  you  told  me  your  cousin  had  married 
recently,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  she  married  George  Oakleigh.  He  was  a  son  of 
Miles  Oakleigh,  the  head  of  the  family;  and  his  cousin, 
Violet  Hunter-Oakleigh,  who's  of  the  Catholic  branch  in  the 
county  Dublin,  married  my  cousin,  Jim  Loring,  who  was 
killed  in  '15.  I  know  it's  confusing  at  first " 

"It's  maddening!  What  has  all  this  to  do  with  Mr. 
Lane?  If  your  cousin — our  cousin " 

"Oh,  tliat's  all  over,  but  he  may  feel  she  made  rather  a  fool 
of  him.  However,  he's  in  good  company:  when  she  was 
seventeen,  I  was  supposed  to  be  engaged  to  her,  and  Craw- 
leigh  had  to  contradict  it  in  the  press ;  and,  to  my  knowledge, 
she's  been  married  off  to  six  people  in  as  many  years,  be- 
ginning with  one  of  the  young  princes  and  ending  with 
some  barrister.  She's  all  right  if  you  don't  take  her  seri- 
ously, but  I'm  told  that  Lane  did,  rather.  She  tried  to  drive 


VIGIL  19 

him  in  double  harness  with  the  barrister  until  they  both 
bolted  in  opposite  directions ;  then  Lane  came  out  here,  and 
the  other  man,  Waring,  quietly  retired  to  the  country;  then 
she  married  George  Oakleigh.  And  that's  the  end  of  Bar- 
bara." 

Lady  John  felt  that  a  criticism  was  expected  of  her,  but 
could  not  decide  how  far  it  was  safe  to  disapprove  of  her 
celebrated  new  cousin  without  incurring  a  charge  of  provin- 
cialism. 

"Well,  she  had  her  fair  share  of  romance,"  she  ventured 
after  a  pause.  "I  should  think  you're  all  rather  relieved." 

"The  Crawleighs  were  a  bit  disappointed,"  answered  Car- 
stairs;  "but  it  might  have  been  worse.  Relieved?  I  don't 
know.  When  I  said  that  was  the  end  of  Barbara.  .  . 
There's  a  curious  little  group  that  my  cousin  Jim  Loring  used 
to  call  "the  Sensationalists";  they  were  always  playing  a 
part  and  pulling  up  their  psychology  by  the  roots  to  see  how 
it  was  growing.  Anything  for  a  new  emotion!  Barbara 
always  had  more  personality  than  the  rest  of  them  put  to- 
gether and  she  led  them  till  she  really  made  London  too  hot 
to  hold  her.  Then  the  war  came.  The  men  were  killed  off 
and  the  women  married;  but  the  old  Adam's  still  alive  in 
some  of  them.  I'm  wondering  what  Barbara's  next  outbreak 
will  be;  she  had  one  emotion  by  marrying  a  tame-cat  Irish 
squireen,  but  how  long  she'll  stick  to  him.  .  .  I'm  sure  we've 
not  finished  with  her  yet.  You'll  find  London  a  curious 
place.  .  .  Look  here,  if  we're  going  to  be  in  time,  I  must  go 
up ;  I  haven't  unpacked  yet." 

At  the  creak  of  chairs,  Eric  Lane  buried  himself  in  his 
paper,  only  looking  up  when  the  bull-necked,  consequential 
young  man  and  his  lithe,  decorative  companion  had  sauntered 
languorously  past,  leaving  in  his  nostrils  an  elusive  hint 
of  violets  and  in  his  memory  a  dissolving  view  of  pearls, 
a  gold  bag,  white  gloves,  a  cloak  tentatively  martial  and 
exquisitely  neat  shoes.  Lady  John  he  had  never  seen  before ; 


20  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Carstairs  he  now  remembered  as  a  young  man  with  too 
much  chin  and  too  little  hair,  intermittently  to  be  found 
in  London  theatres;  they  had  overlapped  for  a  year  or  two 
at  Oxford  where  Carstairs  won  a  brief  notoriety  by  removing 
the  minute  hand  of  the  General  Post  Office  clock  every  Sun- 
day night  throughout  one  term;  twelve  years  in  the  diplo- 
matic service  had  robbed  him  of  irresponsibility  without 
putting  anything  in  its  place.  As  they  disappeared  from 
sight,  Eric  threw  his  paper  away  and  lighted  a  cigar.  After 
long  months  of  solitude,  it  was  stimulating  to  hear  how  the 
world  represented  by  Carstairs  summarized  and  dismissed 
his  contribution  to  the  romantic  Odyssey  of  Lady  Barbara 
Neave. 

He  had  not,  himself,  been  able  to  dismiss  it  so  easily ;  and, 
when  he  left  England  at  the  end  of  1916,  Eric  was  deter- 
mined never  to  come  back.  His  health  was  shattered;  Dr. 
Gaisford  bluntly  threatened  him  with  a  sanatorium;  and  he 
needed  distance  and  change  of  work  to  heal  a  bruised  spirit. 
After  lecturing  in  the  United  States,  he  travelled  for  six 
months  in  South  America  and  started  on  an  aimless  and 
endless  holiday  in  Japan.  While  he  was  in  Tokio,  he  heard 
that  Barbara  was  married.  At  a  time  when  the  German 
armies  were  pouring  down  on  Paris,  the  news  was  tele- 
graphed all  over  the  world;  and  the  press  of  Tokio,  New 
York,  Ottawa,  Sydney  and  Calcutta  gave  her  a  column  of 
description.  Eric  was  dining  with  two  men  from  the  Em- 
bassy, and  throughout  the  evening  they  discussed  nothing 
else.  When  he  first  saw  the  headline:  "Marriage  of  Lady 
Barbara  Neave"  he  fought  for  breath  as  though  his  heart 
had  stopped ;  then,  with  slowly  returning  composure,  he 
realized  for  the  first  time  that  finality  had  been  achieved  and 
that,  in  all  the  months  when  he  was  philosophizing  and 
hardening  his  heart,  he  had  been  waiting  for  a  fantastic 
miracle  to  happen,  hoping  to  see  Barbara,  breathless  and  dusty 


VIGIL  21 

from  the  train,  coming  into  his  hotel.  The  London  telegram 
killed  his  faith  in  romance. 

And  the  excited  column  of  small  type  killed  his  faith  in 
women,  for  Barbara  had  apparently  walked  into  the  street 
and  married  the  first  man  that  she  saw.  .  .  . 

"Who's  this  Oakleigh  ?,"  asked  his  host,  squeezing  the  last 
drop  of  relish  out  of  the  story.  "I've  never  heard  of  him." 

"He's  a  very  nice  fellow,"  Eric  found  himself  answering. 
Oakleigh  henceforth  was  to  have  the  stolen  intoxication  of 
glorying  in  Barbara  when  she  was  well  and  comforting  her 
when  she  was  ill,  of  seeing  her  great  eyes  change  from 
mockery  to  tenderness  and  from  tenderness  to  ecstasy;  but 
Oakleigh  could  never  have  from  her  those  fifteen  fevered 
months  when  their  hearts  had  beaten  together.  .  .  "I've 
known  him  ever  since  I  was  at  Oxford.  He  used  to  be  in 
the  House ;  and  then  he  ran  a  paper.  .  .  He  has  a  place  in 
Ireland—" 

"What  they  call  'a  suitable  alliance'  ?,"  suggested  his  host. 

"Oh,  very." 

"It's  rather  a  disappointing  finish  to  her  career.  .  ." 

The  gossiping  discussion  rambled  on,  introducing  name 
after  name  of  the  men  whom  Lady  Barbara  had  been  ex- 
pected to  marry.  Eric  waited  for  his  own  and,  when 
it  was  not  cited,  relapsed  into  reverie.  He  had  received  a 
letter  that  morning  from  his  sister,  telling  him  that  she  was 
engaged  and  asking  whether  he  would  be  home  in  time  for 
the  wedding.  If  he  had  ever  doubted,  there  was  now  no 
question  of  returning  to  England ;  he  was  too  well  known 
to  be  left  in  peace.  The  Oakleighs  and  Neaves,  the  Knight- 
riders  and  Lorings,  the  Pentyres  and  Carstairs,  the  Mait- 
lands  and  Poynters  all  moved  in  the  same  little  set  of  three 
or  four  hundred  people.  Fifteen  years  before  he  had 
dreamed  at  Oxford  of  the  day  when  he  would  burst  upon 
their  startled  world  and  hold  it  captive ;  the  dream  had  sus- 
tained him  through  the  mortification  of  neglect  and  the 


22  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

despair  of  ill-health  until  of  a  sudden  the  reality  threw  his 
dream  into  shadow.  In  London,  in  Boston,  in  Tokio  he 
was  recognized  in  the  street;  to  escape  the  fulfilment  of  his 
own  prayers  he  had  to  travel  by  unfamiliar  lines  and  hide 
himself  in  unknown  hotels ;  for  ultimate  and  enduring  sanc- 
tuary he  must  retire  to  a  land  untouched  by  books  and 
theatres. 

After  three  months'  desultory  wandering  he  returned  to 
Tokio  and  booked  a  passage  to  China.  Already  his  health 
was  improving;  and,  if  he  could  lose  all  touch  with  English 
ways  of  thought,  he  might  begin  to  lose  touch  with  himself, 
to  shed  his  personality,  almost  to  change  his  identity;  up- 
country  it  must  be  possible  to  find  a  civilization  and  scenery 
so  strange  that  it  would  absorb  him.  As  he  left  his  hotel  for 
the  shipping  office,  he  was  handed  a  cable  from  his  American 
agent : 

"Following  from  Lane  Lashmar  Hampshire  England  for 
you  care  of  me  despatched  fourteenth  your  father  seriously 
ill  think  you  should  return  as  soon  as  possible." 

Eric  studied  the  time  of  despatch  and  retransmission  with 
stupid  deliberation,  giving  himself  time  to  recover  from  the 
shock.  This  meant,  of  course,  that  his  father  was  dying, 
was  perhaps  already  dead ;  and  it  was  his  duty  to  be  shocked. 
Lashmar  on  the  fourteenth,  New  York  on  the  sixteenth, 
Tokio  on  the  eighteenth ; — the  war  had  made  cabling  a  slow 
business.  .  .  He  was  a  selfish  brute  not  to  have  told  his 
mother  where  he  was  going  instead  of  leaving  her  to  track 
him  through  his  American  agent  and,  before  that,  through 
his  London  agent.  His  father  had  never  been  ill  since  he 
was  a  child,  but  he  had  overworked  for  years ;  this  probably 
meant  a  stroke.  .  .  . 

Eric  discovered  that  he  was  quite  dispassionate;  perhaps 
he  was  too  much  numbed  to  feel.  He  must  of  course  re- 
turn immediately;  if  anything  happened,  the  eldest  son 


VIGIL  23 

must  be  at  hand.  Once  in  England,  he  must  let  the  future 
take  care  of  itself. 

Three  weeks  later  he  landed  at  San  Francisco  and  arrived 
in  New  York  two  days  before  the  armistice  was  signed. 
"Mother's  Son"  was  still  running  at  the  Grafton ;  he  was  met 
unexpectedly  at  the  station,  and,  before  the  day  was  out,  two 
reporters  had  called  at  the  Majestic  and  sought  an  interview. 
He  tried  to  dine  by  himself  and  was  instantly  caught  up  by 
a  group  of  friends  who  set  about  organizing  a  banquet  in 
his  honour.  A  private  party  of  twelve  swept  within  twenty- 
four  hours  far  beyond  the  organizer's  control.  Half  New 
York  had  been  to  one  or  other  of  the  plays ;  scores  of  people 
had  already  met  him,  hundreds  more  wanted  to  meet  him. 

"Look  at  it  this  way,"  said  his  agent,  Justus  Grant,  de- 
fensively. "Every  one  knows  you're  here.  Well,  if  it  gets 
out  that  we've  given  you  a  dinner  and  cornered  you,  they'll 
all  ask  why  in  Hell  they  weren't  invited.  I've  got  to  live  in 
New  York,  and  you  haven't.  It's  only  one  speech,  whether 
we're  twelve  or  twelve  hundred.  And  you've  only  to  stand 
and  shake  a  few  more  hands." 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  Eric  promised  with  ebbing  patience. 
It's  a  tremendous  honour.  .  .  ." 

Then  he  began  reading  the  letters  which  he  had  brought 
from  his  agent's.  Lady  Lane  wrote  to  confirm  her  cable  and 
to  say  that  his  father  had  indeed  had  a  stroke.  His  life  was 
no  longer  in  danger,  though  for  some  days  his  speech  had 
been  affected  and  many  months  must  go  by  before  he  could 
resume  work.  There  was  no  immediate  urgency  for  Eric 
to  return;  he  must  decide  for  himself.  Of  course,  he  had 
been  terribly  missed,  and  every  one  was  looking  forward  to 
seeing  him. 

After  resolving  never  to  go  back  to  England,  Eric  felt 
that  nothing  would  now  keep  him  away.  There  was  almost 
everything  to  be  said  against  it,  and,  in  its  favour,  only  that 
he  had  secured  a  cabin  where  others  had  tried  and  failed. 


24  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

The  reason  was  frivolous,  his  mind  was  aimless;  and  he 
accepted  the  reason,  because  it  chimed  with  his  mood  of 
aimlessness.  Moreover — a  reason  yet  more  frivolous! — 
Justus  Grant  was  arranging  a  farewell  dinner  for  him,  and, 
after  being  bidden  God-speed,  he  could  not  decently  loiter 
in  New  York  any  longer.  Of  such  stuff  were  made  the 
cardinal  decisions  of  a  man's  life.  Three  years  earlier,  on 
the  night  of  his  first  meeting  with  Barbara  Neave,  she  had 
asked  him  to  wait  till  the  end  of  her  rubber  and  to  take  her 
home. 

The  crowd  in  the  winter  garden  was  thinning,  and  Eric 
could  study  in  peace  the  notes  which  he  had  jotted  down 
for  his  speech.  Though  Carstairs'  chatter  had  set  his  nerves 
jangling,  he  must  face  a  graver  ordeal  when  he  was  welcomed 
to  the  midst  of  Barbara's  friends  in  London;  if  for  the 
moment  he  could  not  abdicate,  he  must  sit  his  throne 
worthily;  but  he  felt  contempt  for  this  servile  herd  which 
abased  itself  before  him.  For  two  years  he  had  lived  in 
isolation;  and,  if  he  was  now  flung  face  to  face  with  his 
public,  he  would  shew  that  he  could  preserve  his  isolation  in 
their  midst. 

He  roused  from  moody  reverie  to  find  his  host  standing, 
watch  in  hand,  before  him. 

"Haven't  you  dressed  yet?,"  asked  Grant  anxiously. 
"The  automobile's  at  the  door." 

Instead  of  thinking  about  his  speech,  Eric  was  only  brood- 
ing over  the  hollowness  of  his  belated,  unwanted  triumph ; 
three  years  earlier  it  would  have  intoxicated  him  to  take 
New  York  or  London  by  storm,  but  he  was  wondering  for 
the  first  time  whether  this  lust  for  theatrical  sensationalism 
did  not  really  lower  him  to  the  level  of  Barbara  Neave  and 
her  school.  Certainly  he  had  outgrown  the  phase  so  much 
that  he  would  have  been  almost  a  little  glad  to  shew  his  con- 
tempt by  making  every  one  wait.  .  .  . 

For  a  moment  he  pretended  to  be  unconscious  of  Grant's 


VIGIL  251 

presence ;  then  he  was  stung  to  activity  by  a  fear  that  this 
scorn  of  soul  was  only  another  experiment  in  sensational- 
ism. .  .  . 

"I'll  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,"  he  cried,  as  he  ran  out  of 
the  winter  garden.  For  one  night  he  must  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  his  company;  after  that  he  would  hide  himself 
where  he  could  escape  equally  the  emotion  of  courting 
triumph  and  of  avoiding  it. 

Hundreds  were  assembled  at  the  Plaza,  when  he  arrived : 
how  many  hundreds  he  was  too  indifferent  to  enquire,  but 
they  were  lined  up  in  rows;  the  rumble  of  countless  con- 
versations shrank  to  a  whisper  and  died  away  in  a  moment's 
silence;  then  every  one  who  knew  him  hastened  to  shake 
hands,  while  the  rest  begged  to  be  introduced.  For  all  his 
indifference,  Eric  was  warmed  by  his  reception.  Through- 
out his  wanderings  in  South  America  and  Japan,  imagina- 
tion and  will  had  swung  alternate  hammers  to  fashion  a  new 
life  which  he  could  find  worth  living.  Here  was  acclama- 
tion. The  throne  awaited  him,  if  he  could  mount  it 
worthily.  He  was  but  thirty-five,  his  health  had  returned  to 
him.  .  .  All  his  life  he  had  prayed  for  this  moment  of 
domination.  .  .  . 

A  waiter  interrupted  the  chorus  of  welcome  by  thrusting 
his  way  forward  with  a  tray  of  cocktails  and  caviare  sand- 
wiches. In  the  moment's  lull  Eric  saw  Carstairs  at  his  elbow 
and  turned  to  him. 

"I  believe  we  have  met,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"I  just  missed  you  when  I  called  at  the  Embassy  last  year." 

Carstairs  shook  hands  awkwardly  and  muttered  an  intro- 
duction to  his  wife. 

"When  I  was  in  Japan,  I  saw  that  Barbara  had  married 
my  friend  George  Oakleigh,"  Eric  went  on.  "I  know  them 
both  very  well.  Jim  Loring,  of  course,  was  one  of  my 
greatest  friends.  And  your  mother  used  to  be  kind  enough 
to  ask  me  to  some  of  her  parties." 


26  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

He  had  dropped  his  indifference  in  a  calculated  effort  to 
shew  these  Carstairs  that,  even  if  they  did  not  want  to  meet 
him,  he  would  meet  them  or  not  as  he  liked.  This  dinner, 
after  all,  was  his  apotheosis;  some  one  at  his  elbow  was 
whispering  that  five  hundred  tickets  had  been  sold  and  that 
the  committee  could  have  sold  more  than  twice  that  number. 
It  was  astonishing  that  a  thousand  educated  men  and  women 
had  no  better  use  for  their  time  and  money ;  astonishing,  too, 
that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  dragged  out  for  public 
display,  for  in  all  that  vast  gathering  there  was  not  one 
eager  face  that  he  wished  ever  to  see  again.  Indifference 
and  aloofness  returned  as  a  protection  against  such  a  sense 
of  loneliness  as  he  had  never  known  when  he  was  most 
isolated. 

"I  believe  we're  going  by  your  boat,"  said  Lady  John. 

"That  will  be  delightful,"  Eric  answered. 

The  babble  of  voices  rose  and  swelled  until  the  chairman 
wound  his  way  back  to  Eric's  side  and  led  him  into  the 
dining-room.  Detachment  changed  for  a  moment  to  an- 
tagonism as  he  walked  between  the  long  whispering  rows: 
warm  waves  of  scent  beat  upon  his  cheeks;  before,  behind 
and  on  either  side  he  felt  the  magnetism  of  a  thousand  eyes 
drawing  him  out  of  his  self-sufficiency  and  assailing  his 
frozen  reserve.  As  quickly  as  his  companion  would  allow, 
he  walked  on,  looking  stiffly  ahead,  to  the  seat  of  honour. 
There,  while  the  rigid,  whispering  rows  broke  up  and  poured 
in  at  his  heels,  he  looked  idly  at  the  men  and  women  who 
made  up  a  world  which  he  had  left  for  ever.  It  was  difficult 
to  see  all  the  tables  and  impossible  to  count  his  hosts;  but 
the  printed  plan  shewed  him  name  after  honoured  name; 
New  York  political,  New  York  a  night's  lodging  for  itin- 
erant diplomacy,  New  York  literary  and  artistic,  New  York 
rich,  New  York  fashionable  and  New  York  merely  curious 
had  crowded  into  the  great  room;  and  his  health  was  to  be 
proposed  by  Nelson  Millbank,  who  had  been  ambassador  in 


VIGIL  27 

London  when  Eric  was  still  unborn.  Through  the  flowers, 
over  the  little  Stars  and  Stripes  and  the  Union  Jacks  flutter- 
ing between  the  vases  he  tried  to  identify  those  who  were 
nearest  to  him.  Every  one  seemed  to  be  looking  in  his  di- 
rection ;  and,  to  escape  their  eyes,  he  turned  to  his  neighbour. 

"America's  always  been  uncommonly  good  to  me,  Mr. 
Millbank,"  he  said,  "but  I've  never  had  anything  of  this 
kind  before." 

"You  will  shew  your  gratitude  by  coming  back,"  was  the 
answer,  "though  we  feel  that  the  indebtedness  lies  the  other 
way." 

"I'm  leaving  you  from  necessity  and  not  choice." 

"For  leisure — and  for  more  plays,  we  hope.  And  what 
psychological  material,  Mr.  Lane!  Had  I  your  genius  and 
your  youth.  .  .  The  convulsion's  as  great,  when  you  turn 
a  soldier  into  a  civilian,  as  when  you  turn  a  civilian  into  a 
soldier.  It  will  be  your  privilege  to  capture  and  preserve 
for  us  the  impression  of  a  world  in  travail.  A  man  gets  his 
discharge  papers  one  morning — and  finds  himself  with  an  old 
life  to  take  up  or  a  new  life  to  make.  .  .  ." 

"Yes.  I've  been  thinking  of  that  for  some  time,"  said 
Eric,  half  to  himself.  "Though  I'm  not  a  soldier.  .  .  It's 
all  right  if  he  himself  has  changed  with  the  world  around 
him;  in  peace  the  individual  moves  more  quickly  than  the 
mass,  but  in  war  the  mass  moves  more  quickly  than  the  in- 
dividual." 

He  stroked  his  chin  thoughtfully  and  looked  up  to  find  the 
woman  opposite  him  leaning  forward  with  a  faint  air  of 
diffidence  and  a  question  in  embryo. 

"There's  no  old  life  for  women  to  take  up,  is  there?"  she 
asked,  plucking  up  courage,  but  evidently  disconcerted  by 
the  clear  ascendancy  of  her  own  voice. 

"Woman  is  unchanging,"  Eric  answered,  "she  resigns 
herself  to  civilization,  but  she  has  never  been  civilized.  Man 
is,  to  her,  a  physiological  incident  and  a  domestic  accessory, 


28  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

so  that  a  war  only  affects  woman  by  withdrawing  so  many 
potential  fathers  of  her  children  and  supporters  of  her 
house." 

He  glanced  covertly  at  the  plan  of  the  table  and  found 
opposite  his  own  name  that  of  Lady  Woodstock.  Sir 
Matthew  Woodstock,  three  chairs  away,  was  a  partner  in 
Woodstock,  McArthur  and  Company  and  had  been  sent  to 
America  by  the  Ministry  of  Munitions  as  British  representa- 
tive on  the  Purchasing  and  Priority  Council. 

To  right  and  left  rose  an  eager  debate  on  sex  and  con- 
duct. Eric  had  thrown  them  a  bait  which,  he  knew  well, 
few  men  and  no  woman  could  resist.  An  "academic" 
discussion  of  sex  enabled  them  to  talk  about  themselves, 
to  indulge  their  own  sex-curiosity,  to  fancy  themselves 
wholesomely  fearless  and  unprejudiced;  it  enabled  him  to 
dine  peacefully  in  the  soothing  haze  of  sham-intellectuality 
and  to  study  anew  the  names  on  the  table-plan.  Next  to 
Carstairs  he  saw  Mrs.  O'Rane  deep  in  conversation  with 
John  Gaymer ;  next  to  him  was  Lady  John,  with  O'Rane  on 
her  other  side.  It  was  indeed  no  great  exaggeration  to  say 
that  there  were  more  British  officials  than  Americans  in 
New  York;  and  the  sight  of  this  compact  alien  colony  set 
Eric  thinking  about  his  speech.  He  was  unlikely  to  enter 
the  Plaza  again,  but  he  could  not  spend  a  week  in  London 
without  meeting  O'Rane  or  Gaymer;  his  valediction  should 
be  something  for  them  to  remember  and  quote  when  he  had 
slipped  through  their  hands  into  a  retirement  from  which, 
this  time,  there  would  be  no  return.  .  .  He  was  roused  by 
the  touch  of  a  woman's  hand  on  his  sleeve.  Finding  him  un- 
occupied, his  neighbour  was  asking  him  to  sign  her  menu. 
Instantly  her  example  was  followed  by  every  one  who  saw 
him  writing ;  menus  were  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  waiters 
appeared  from  other  tables  with  piled-up  trays ;  he  was  still 
signing  when  Nelson  Millbank  whispered  a  question  and 
stood  up  to  propose  the  toast  of  the  evening. 


VIGIL  29 

Eric  lighted  his  cigar  and  leaned  back,  looking  over  the 
heads  of  the  diners  to  a  vast  fan-group  of  the  Allied  flags, 
draped  over  the  main  door.  At  a  semicircular  table  twenty 
feet  away  the  press-men  were  industriously  scribbling:  two 
were  looking  up  at  him  from  their  sketch-books  and  down 
to  the  sketch-books  again ;  he  posed  himself  and  sat  patiently 
still.  Millbank's  rising  had  been  greeted  with  a  storm  of 
cheers  and  clapping ;  his  opening  sentences  called  forth  fresh 
cheers,  and  punctually  thereafter,  at  the  polished  end  of 
each  resonant  period,  as  he  half  turned  to  the  guest  of  the 
evening  or  indicated  him  with  a  slight  movement  of  his 
hand,  there  was  a  new  outburst  of  applause. 

Though  he  listened  with  only  half  his  attention,  Eric  knew 
that  it  was  a  great  speech  from  a  man  who  had  been  known 
for  more  than  forty  years  as  one  of  the  greatest  after-dinner 
speakers  in  America.  That  much,  at  least,  he  had  expected, 
but  he  was  hardly  prepared  for  the  white-hot  enthusiasm  of 
the  audience.  This,  if  anything,  should  stimulate  a  man 
to  better  work  than  he  had  ever  yet  accomplished;  but  for 
two  years  all  work  had  mysteriously  lost  its  savour  and 
purpose.  If  he  ever  wrote  again,  he  would  still  be  artist 
enough  to  give  forth  only  the  best  that  was  in  him,  but  he 
no  longer  cared  for  the  applause  of  a  blurred,  indistinguish- 
able mob  ;  his  plays,  indeed,  were  running  in  three  continents, 
but  in  a  thousand  audiences  there  was  no  one  whose  judge- 
ment mattered  to  him  as  in  the  old  days  when  above  "the  mad 
houseful's  plaudits"  he  looked  "through  all  the  roaring  and 
the  wreaths"  for  one  half  smile  of  praise  from  Barbara. 
Had  all  these  bright-eyed  men  and  women  masked  their 
faces,  were  Millbank  speaking  an  unknown  tongue,  Eric 
could  not  have  had  less  in  common  with  them.  Mrs.  O'Rane 
threw  him  a  dazzling  glance  of  congratulation;  and,  before 
he  could  bow,  he  had  to  overcome  his  surprise  that  she  had 
recognized  him.  In  all  this  funeral  throng  he  alone  knew 
that  for  two  years  he  had  been  dead.  .  .  . 


30  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Voice,  gesture  and  mounting  sentiment  shewed  that  the 
peroration  was  at  hand : 

"And,  lastly,  I  thank  you,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  the 
honour  and  the  opportunity  of  having  my  name  associated 
for  a  moment  of  one  night  with  the  loved  name  of  our  guest. 
He  and  I  stand  at  the  remote  opposite  ends  of  life,  so  that 
I  cannot  hope  to  meet  him  often  again.  You,  who  will  meet 
him  and  see  him  and  read  him,  I  congratulate  and  envy.  I 
ask  you  to  rise  and  join  me  in  wishing  him  long  life,  health 
and  prosperity." 

There  was  an  instant's  silence,  and  the  room  rose  in  a  wave 
of  black  and  white.  "Lane !  Lane !  Lane !"  The  thunder- 
ing repetition  of  his  name  drowned  the  clink  of  the  glasses, 
the  individual  toasts  and  even  the  college  yell  which  rocketed 
from  the  end  of  the  room.  Eric  bowed  to  Millbank,  then 
turned  slowly  and  inclined  his  head  to  right,  to  left  and  in 
front.  The  speech  had  intoxicated  them ;  they  looked  at  him 
with  shining  eyes,  an  inch  removed  from  hysteria. 

"And  what  do  they  expect  I  can  say  after  that,  sir  ?"  Eric 
whispered  to  Millbank,  as  the  applause  died  slowly  away  and 
he  sat  down. 

"Take  your  time,  Mr.  Lane." 

Once  more  every  one  was  looking  at  him  in  a  silence 
broken  only  by  a  buzzing  commentary  on  Millbank's  speech. 
Eric  straightened  his  tie,  pulleo!  down  his  waistcoat  and  laid 
his  watch  on  the  table  beside  his  finger-bowl.  As  he  pushed 
back  his  chair  and  slowly  drew  himself  erect,  he  caught  sight 
of  his  reflection  in  three  long  mirrors:  black-haired  and 
white-cheeked,  aquiline  and  thin,  with  deep-set  brown  eyes 
and  lips  tightly  compressed,  he  could  fancy  that  he  was 
looking  at  his  own  dead  body.  The  applause  broke  out  again, 
ten  times  louder  and  longer  than  before ;  there  was  a  blinding 
flash  of  silver  light  from  a  magnesium  flare,  followed  by 
dense  grey  clouds  of  smoke.  As  they  cleared  away,  he  once 
more  established  the  position  of  Carstairs  and  his  wife, 


VIGIL  31 

holding  himself  upright  and  only  touching  the  table  with 
the  tips  of  his  fingers.  Though  slightly  built,  he  was  tall 
enough  to  dominate  an  audience;  in  three  years  of  public 
speaking  he  had  acquired  such  composure  that  he  could 
stand  for  a  full  minute  without  saying  anything.  It  was  a 
test  of  grip ;  if  he  could  hold  his  company  without  speaking,  he 
could  do  what  he  liked  with  it  afterwards.  Before  he  turned 
to  Millbank,  the  great  room  was  as  silent  as  the  Festspielhaus 
before  the  opening  bar  of  Parsifal.  Something  seemed  to 
have  come  to  life  within  him,  for  he  now  felt  that  he  must 
at  all  costs  eclipse  Millbank's  speech ;  if  he  could  not  match 
his  slow  stateliness  of  eloquence  and  diction,  he  would  master 
him  in  pure  lyrical  fire  and  music.  .  .  . 

"Mr.  Millbank,  Your  Excellencies,  My  Lords,  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen.  .  ." 

The  voice  was  flexible  and  light,  capable  of  infinite  emo- 
tional variation,  boyish  and  appealing  after  Millbank's  deep 
resonance.  Eric  had  discarded  and  forgotten  his  rehearsed 
speech.  Dreary  months  of  stereotyped  lecturing  set  him 
ablaze  to  speak  his  soul.  The  audience  had  surrendered  to 
his  presence  and  surrendered  again  to  his  voice;  he  could 
twist  every  man  and  woman  round  his  finger.  .  .  . 

Forty  minutes  had  passed  before  he  sat  down.  There 
was  no  applause,  for  none  dared  break  the  silence;  but  he 
had  made  them  laugh  and  he  had  brought  tears  into  the 
eyes  of  the  woman  opposite;  the  audience  had  quivered  and 
gasped.  Now,  if  they  had  not  guessed  it  before,  they  knew 
how  he  inspired  with  his  own  genius  the  actors  who  inter- 
preted his  plays;  henceforth  they  would  recognize  whose 
personality  it  was  that  spread  magnetically  across  the  foot- 
lights. .  .  .  He  picked  up  the  dead  cigar  from  his  plate  and 
felt  for  a  match.  He  would  have  liked  to  look  at  Carstairs, 
but  it  was  unnecessary;  Carstairs  himself,  with  his  unmis- 
takable English  drawl,  broke  the  silence  by  exclaiming :  "Oh, 
I  say,  that  was  devilish  good,  you  know !"  Thereat  the  pent 


32  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

storm  of  cheering  gushed  forth  as  though  he  had  touched  a 
spring. 

There  followed  a  presentation  and  more  introductions. 
Eric  stood  bowing  to  congratulations  and  trying  to  answer 
five  questions  at  a  time  until  the  chairman  rescued  him  and 
took  him  back  to  the  Majestic.  Even  there  he  was  con- 
strained to  hold  a  new  court  and  to  accept  the  homage  of 
those  who  had  not  found  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him 
before.  Mid-night  was  striking  as  he  shook  the  last  hand 
and  lighted  his  last  cigar;  with  it  came  nervous  exhaustion 
and  an  abrupt  reaction,  in  which  once  more  he  seemed  to 
have  crossed  the  boundary  between  two  lives  and  to  be  wan- 
dering alone  in  eternal  emptiness.  .  .  . 

As  he  walked  back  to  the  winter  garden  a  woman  rose 
from  her  chair  and  hurried  up  to  him. 

"Mr.  Lane,  I  must  thank  you  for  that  speech!  It  was 
wonderful!  I've  never  heard  anything  like  it.  Aren't  you 
dreadfully  tired?" 

The  cloak  and  scarf  kept  him  for  a  moment  from  recog- 
nizing her  as  the  woman  who  had  sat  opposite  him  at  dinner. 

"I  am,  rather,"  he  answered,  leaning  against  the  arm  of 
a  chair.  "But  it's  the  last  speech  I  shall  ever  make." 

"In  America,  you  mean?  It's  so  glorious  to  feel  that  I've 
actually  met  you !  You're  crossing  on  the  Lithuania,  aren't 
you?  So  are  we.  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  on  board.  And  I 
shall  make  a  thorough  nuisance  of  myself  by  asking  you  to 
write  in  my  autograph  book.  Now  I  mustn't  keep  you;  I 
expect  you've  all  sorts  of  packing  to  do." 

"I'm  glad  to  say  I  haven't  unpacked  since  I  left  Japan.  .  . 
Good-night,  Lady  Woodstock." 

She  looked  up  at  him  curiously  for  a  moment  and  then 
broke  into  a  laugh. 

"I'm  not — Mr.  Lane,  you're  not  mistaking  me  for  Lady 
Woodstock,  are  you?" 


VIGIL  33 

"I  thought  you  were.  I  saw  your  name  on  the  plan  of 
the  table—" 

"Oh,  but  that  was  because  she  was  too  tired  to  come.  Sir 
Matthew  brought  me  in  her  place.  Wasn't  that  a  piece  of 
luck  for  me?  I'm  his  secretary.  He's  not  come  in  yet,  has 
he  ?  I  simply  daren't  go  to  bed  until  I've  found  out  whether 
he  has  any  more  work  for  me." 

"He  was  still  at  the  Plaza,  when  I  left,"  said  Eric. 

"Then  I  suppose  I  must  wait  up  for  him." 

She  chose  herself  a  chair,  threw  open  her  cloak  and  untied 
the  scarf  from  her  hair.  Now  that  the  girl  had  told  him 
what  she  was,  Eric  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  imag- 
ined her  to  be  anything  else.  She  looked  eighteen  or  twenty 
and  displayed  the  brisk  assurance  which  he  had  come  to  re- 
gard as  a  woman's  price  of  admission  to  the  temporary  civil 
service.  Her  hair  was  bobbed  and  surrounded  with  a  red 
band;  a  serviceable  black  dress  revealed  slender  arms  and 
shoulders ;  and  her  regular,  rather  sharp  features  were  agree- 
ably relieved  by  grey-blue  eyes  which  seemed  younger  and 
less  self-confident  than  the  rest  of  her.  Eric  had  met  and 
striven  to  avoid  very  many  of  her  type  in  English  government 
offices ;  they  were  at  all  times  too  much  emancipated  for  his 
liking,  too  energetic,  efficient  and  certain  of  themselves,  too 
conscious  of  sex-superiority  to  concern  themselves  with  sex- 
equality.  Sir  Matthew  Woodstock's  secretary  looked  devas- 
tatingly  conscientious  and  practical ;  she  billeted  herself  in 
the  most  comfortable  chair  with  the  determination  which  he 
could  imagine  her  shewing  when  she  arranged  appointments 
and  guarded  her  employer  from  unauthorized  telephone  as- 
saults. And  she  would  call  him  her  "chief"  rather  than  her 
"employer."  .  .  . 

Force  of  habit,  rather  than  any  personal  interest,  had  led 
Eric  to  spend  a  moment  in  cataloguing  her ;  thereafter  he 
was  only  concerned  to  find  a  polite  excuse  for  going  to  bed. 
The  girl  seemed  conscious  that  she  had  thrust  herself  upon 


34  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

him,  for,  after  a  short  silence,  she  looked  at  her  watch  and 
exclaimed : 

"I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  late!  Mr.  Lane,  I  mustn't  keep 
you  up." 

She  coloured  bashfully  as  she  spoke,  and  Eric  felt  that  he 
had  been  unkind  in  not  putting  her  at  ease.  The  flush  so 
changed  her  fagade  of  efficiency  and  determination  that, 
though  she  evidently  wanted  him  to  stay,  she  did  not  know 
how  to  ask. 

"I'll  finish  my  cigar  with  you,  if  I  may,"  he  said.  "You 
must  have  a  wearing  life  with  Sir  Matthew,  if  he  always 
keeps  you  up  as  late  as  this.  Have  you  been  with  him  long  ?" 

The  jejune  encouragement  restored  her  composure;  and 
Eric  saw  with  dismay  that  he  must  talk  in  self-defence  or 
submit  to  unrestricted  loquacity. 

"Two  years,"  she  answered ;  then  in  rapid,  unsought  con- 
fidence: "You  see,  he  and  father  were  great  friends  at 
Cambridge,  and,  when  I  wanted  to  do  war-work,  father 
wouldn't  let  me  learn  to  make  munitions  and  mother  wouldn't 
let  me  go  into  an  office.  They're  afraid  to  allow  me  out  of 
their  sight.  I  wanted  to  nurse  or  drive  a  car,  but  father 
and  mother — " 

"You  have  a  lot  to  put  up  with  from  your  parents !,"  Eric 
interrupted. 

"Oh,  they're  hopeless.    I  expect  you've  met  father — " 

"I  don't  even  know  your  name,  as  you  assure  me  you're 
not  Lady  Woodstock." 

"Ivy  Maitland.    Father's  the  Judge,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  him,  but  he's  a  brother  of  the  general,  isn't 
he?  I  know  Lady  Maitland  very  well — your  aunt,  I  mean." 

"Oh,  as  if  mother  knew  anybody  or  anybody  knew  mother ! 
Well,  I  had  to  do  something:  both  my  sisters  were  married, 
and  my  brothers  were  fighting.  Then  Sir  Matthew  wanted 
a  secretary.  .  .  ." 

Eric  wondered  how  quickly  he  could  finish  his  cigar  with- 


VIGIL  35 

out  spoiling  it,  then  settled  resignedly  in  his  chair  and  listened 
with  eyes  half-closed.  Miss  Maitland  had  worked  for  Sir 
Matthew  Woodstock  in  London,  New  York,  Paris,  Rome 
and  Petrograd,  crowding  into  two  years  more  excitement 
and  experiences  than  she  had  dreamed  of  knowing  in  a  life- 
time. She  was  nineteen  and  looking  for  new  worlds  to 
explore,  but,  as  with  Alexander  on  the  confines  of  India,  the 
army  insisted  on  returning  home:  and  there,  Sir  Matthew 
told  her  with  regret,  he  had  his  own  trained  staff,  and  there 
would  be  no  work  for  her. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  back  to  En- 
gland ?,"  asked  Eric  in  the  first  negotiable  pause. 

"Get  hold  of  a  new  job  before  father  has  time  to  see  that 
the  war's  over,"  she  answered  promptly.  "There'll  be  a  row, 
of  course,  when  he  finds  out.  .  .  D'you  employ  a  secretary 
in  England,  Mr.  Lane?" 

"I  used  to." 

"And  you  will  again.  Will  you  take  me?  Sir  Matthew 
will  tell  you  that  I'm  a  first-rate  shorthand-typist,  I'm  fairly 
well-educated,  I'm  intelligent,  I  hope  I've  got  a  certain 
amount  of  tact.  I'll  tell  you  that  I'm  honest — honest  in  the 
sense  that,  when  I  take  money  from  a  person,  I  work  my 
fingers  to  the  bones  for  him." 

Eric  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"It  wouldn't  be  very  practicable,"  he  said. 

"Why  not  ?  I'll  come  to  you  for  a  month  without  salary ! 
Three  months!  I  can't  afford  more  than  that." 

Underneath  her  eagerness  Eric  fancied  that  he  could 
detect  something  more  than  restless  impetuosity. 

"My  dear  Miss  Maitland,  you  must  think  me  very  sordid," 
he  laughed. 

"Well,  why  won't  you  give  me  a  trial?" 

"For  purely  conventional  reasons.  I  know  your  uncle  and 
aunt  very  well.  I'm  not  going  to  be  party  to  a  conspiracy 
for  taking  away  the  daughter  of  a  very  eminent  judge  against 


36  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

his  wishes.  If  I  can  help  you  to  find  work  of  which  your 
parents  approve,  I'll  do  what  I  can.  But  I've  been  away  from 
England  so  long  that  I  can't  promise  anything;  and  I've  no 
idea  how  long  I  shall  be  there." 

The  cigar  was  but  half-finished,  but  he  threw  it  away  and 
shook  hands,  trying  not  to  see  that  she  was  disappointed  but 
in  no  doubt  that  it  was  hardly  reasonable  for  him  to  be 
stampeded  by  any  mercurial  nineteen-year-old  to  whom  he 
shewed  a  moment's  civility. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,  I  feel  I've  no  right  to  bother 
you  like  this,"  she  answered.  "I  meant  to  talk  about  your 
plays;  and  I've  only  talked  about  myself." 

"It  was  more  interesting — to  me.  If  you  think  I  can  help 
in  any  way,  write  to  me  at  the  Regency  Theatre  or  the 
Thespian  Club,  Grosvenor  Place." 

"But  I  hope  to  see  you  on  the  boat." 

Eric  had  not  overlooked  that  possibility,  but  he  decided 
that  he  did  not  want  to  meet  Miss  Ivy  Maitland  again. 

"But — in  case  we  don't,"  he  said.     "Good-night." 

In  his  own  room  he  threw  open  the  window  to  liberate 
the  day's  stifling  accumulation  of  steam-heating.  Kneeling 
on  a  chair  with  his  chin  on  his  hands,  he  looked  down  on  a 
plateau  of  roofs  startlingly  punctuated  by  the  blazing  bean- 
stalks of  slender  giant  buildings.  It  was  the  last  time  that 
he  would  see  New  York  at  night,  the  last  time  that  he  would 
be  in  America.  He  had  made  his  last  speech;  he  hoped 
devoutly  that  he  had  submitted  for  the  last  time  to  the 
unintelligent  exuberance  of  too  appreciative  school -girls.  .  .  . 

At  three  o'clock  his  vigil  was  not  yet  ended,  but  he  turned 
from  the  window  with  a  shiver  and  began  to  undress.  It 
was  well  enough  to  make  this  catalogue  of  things  that  he 
would  never  do  again,  but  for  two  years  he  had  been  trying 
to  discover  what  life  he  could  fashion  for  himself  in  their 
stead. 

"I'm  beaten,"  he  whispered  to  the  darkness  as  he  turned 


VIGIL  37 

restlessly  from  side  to  side.  "I  may  as  well  admit  it  .  .  . 
I've  never  said  it  before  in  all  my  life.  I  never  thought  1 
should  say  it ;  and  I  can  still  put  up  a  good  bluff  on  occasion. 
But  I'm  beaten.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  TWO 

DAWN 

"And  now  .  .  .  now  that  everything  has  turned  out  as  I  told  you 
it  would,  what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 
"I  suppose  ...  we  must  begin  all  over  again." 

EIMAR  O'DuFFY:  "THE  WASTED  ISLAND." 

THE  dinner  at  the  Plaza,  described  at  length  and  extrava- 
gantly illustrated  in  a  dozen  papers,  was  hardly  a  greater 
personal  triumph  than  the  farewell  scenes  on  board  the 
Lithuania.  Ambassadors  honoured  and  beloved  had  left  in 
less  magnificence.  Scores  of  his  friends  came  on  board  to 
bid  Eric  good-bye;  the  management  of  the  Grafton  filled 
his  state-room  with  hot-house  roses,  and  he  was  loaded  with 
presents  ranging  from  a  gold  cigar-case  to  an  unsinkable 
swimming-suit ;  German  submarines  were  being  recalled,  but 
his  friends  would  not  expose  him  to  the  risk  of  a  belated 
straggler  or  of  a  forgotten  mine-field. 

As  the  land  receded  and  vanished,  Eric  turned  away  from 
the  rail  and  went  below.  He  had  been  watched  ever  since 
he  came  on  board;  round,  wondering  eyes  followed  the 
coming  and  going  of  his  friends,  interested  and  envious  eyes 
explored  the  parcels  which  mounted  like  a  rampart  on  the 
deck  more  quickly  than  his  steward  could  carry  them  away. 
Eager  whispers  rippled  about  him,  becoming  hushed  at  his 
approach.  So  Irving  and  Melba  had  travelled — in  regal  state 
and  more  than  regal  loneliness. 

He  spent  the  first  day  in  his  cabin,  unpacking  and  re- 
packing, while  his  steward  contrived  supplementary  cases 
for  his  spoils.  In  the  saloon,  which  he  was  the  last  to  reach 
and  the  first  to  leave,  his  seat  was  between  Lady  Woodstock, 

38 


DAWN  39 

who  seemed  afraid  to  speak,  and  Lady  John  Carstairs,  who 
retired  from  sight  at  the  first  roll  of  the  boat.  The  passenger- 
list  was  made  up  almost  wholly  of  soldiers  and  government 
officials,  for  the  most  part  unknown  to  Eric  and  too  much 
occupied  with  consultations  and  reports  to  force  their  com- 
pany upon  a  man  who  was  conspicuously  avoiding  it.  John 
Gaymer,  whom  he  had  met  at  long  intervals  during  three  or 
four  years  and  who  had  been  seconded  as  an  instructor  at 
one  of  the  American  aerodromes,  made  a  facetious  comment 
on  the  Plaza  dinner  as  an  overture  of  friendship  before 
asking  him  to  play  poker ;  and  David  O'Rane,  returning  from 
a  campaign  of  propaganda  in  the  Middle  West,  tried  to 
persuade  Eric  to  transfer  himself  to  the  Chief  Engineer's 
table.  For  the  rest,  he  was  left  in  peace  until  the  third  day 
when,  on  entering  the  smoke-room  in  search  of  matches,  he 
was  caught  by  Carstairs  and  pressed  to  join  him  for  a  cock- 
tail. At  once  and  with  apparent  carelessness,  four  other  men 
attached  themselves  to  the  table  and  conscientiously  offered 
Eric  their  compliments  on  his  work  and  their  thanks  for  the 
opportunity  of  meeting  him.  He  acknowledged  the  tribute 
with  a  practised  show  of  gratification  and  submitted  to 
diffident  questions  on  his  method  of  composition  and  his 
theories  of  art.  When  at  last  he  excused  himself  and  went 
out  on  deck,  O'Rane  overtook  him  and  suggested  a  stroll 
before  dinner. 

"I've  hardly  had  a  word  with  you  since  we  came  on  board, 
Eric,"  he  began.  "You've  not  been  seedy,  have  you  ?" 

"No,  but  I've  reached  an  age  when  I  can't  move  without 
running  across  people  I  know.  From  one  end  of  America 
to  the  other,  in  Japan,  here.  .  .  On  a  ship  I  like  to  escape 
my  fellow  man  and  have — a  rest.  .  .  I  don't  mean  you,  of 
course,  but  the  people  who  feel  they  must  congratulate  me 
on  a  play  that  I  wish  I'd  never  written.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  glad  you  make  an  exception  in  my  favour,  though  I 
tell  you  frankly  that  I'm  much  too  old  a  friend  to  be  shaken 


40  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

off  easily.  It  must  be  seventeen  years  since  we  first  met. 
D'you  remember  the  Phoenix  dinners  at  Oxford?  Jim 
Loring,  Summertown,  Draycott,  Sinclair — they're  all  gone; 
George  Oakleigh — married;  you,  Jack  Waring  and  me — 
knocked  out  to  a  certain  extent ;  Knightrider  and  Began  way 
pursuing  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way.  .  .  You  can 
crowd  a  great  deal  into  seventeen  years.  .  .  ." 

"I've  never  forgotten  the  night  when  you  cast  our 
horoscopes  for  us,"  murmured  Eric. 

"I've  sometimes  tried  to  forget  it.  .  .  We  were  only 
about  twenty,  I  gave  every  man  ten  years'  run.  It's  been 
too  frightfully  true.  D'you  remember  that  even  in  those 
days  I  told  you  we  should  turn  out  one  genius?  I  told  you 
to  your  face  who  it  would  be." 

Eric  unlinked  his  arm  on  the  plea  of  wanting  to  refill  his 
pipe.  What  with  knocking  out  the  ashes  and  sacrificing  four 
matches  to  a  head  wind,  he  gave  himself  time  to  become 
collected. 

"One  man  was  to  achieve  some  kind  of  distinction,"  he 
said  with  an  effort  of  memory.  "And  one  was  to  make 
money.  .  .  Touch  wood  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  in 
eighteen  months  I  made  more  than  I  thought  I  could  make 
in  a  life-time." 

"With  fame  thrown  in,"  added  O'Rane.  "That  being  so, 
I  couldn't  understand  your  speech  at  the  Plaza." 

They  walked  the  length  of  the  deck  before  Eric  answered. 

"It  went  down  very  well,"  he  protested. 

"Oh,  yes!  And  no  doubt  you  looked  very  nice.  The 
decent  women  would  always  fall  in  love  with  you  because 
you  look  delicate  and  interesting ;  and  the  fools  because  they 
think  you're  spiritual.  And  I've  no  doubt  your  button-hole 
and  gestures  and  lumps  in  the  throat  were  perfect;  you're 
an  old  stage  hand.  I  couldn't  see  any  of  that,  but  I  could 
hear.  You  must  be  careful,  old  man,  before  you  try  to  put 
it  over  people  who  can't  see;  we  hear  the  very  devil  of  a 


DAWN  41 

lot.  .  .  And  you  must  admit  it  was  a  rotten  speech  for  you 
to  make.  Perhaps  I  know  as  much  as  most  people  about 
your  private  affairs;  it  was  the  yelp  of  a  whipped  cur." 

"But — I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at!  They  gave 
me  a  marvellous  reception,  and  I — I  let  myself  go.  I  told 
'em  what  it  meant  to  me,  the  years  of  agony  and  bloody 
sweat.  .  .  God!  I  laid  myself  bare  and  talked  about  art 
like  a  Chelsea  poet.  It  had  taken  me  half  my  life  to  get 
there.  .  .  And  you  say  it  was  insincere !" 

"As  you'd  stripped  so  far,  you  might  have  talked  about 
the  future  a  bit,"  suggested  O'Rane.  "It  was  that  silence 
I  heard  most  distinctly.  .  .  What  are  you  going  to  do  when 
you  get  to  England?" 

"Get  out  again  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Dear  man,  you  can't  get  away  from  yourself  any  more 
than  a  kitten  can  catch  its  own  tail.  It's  time  you  pulled 
yourself  together." 

Eric  stifled  a  sigh  before  it  could  reach  his  companion's 
too  acute  hearing. 

"I'm  a  bit  tired.  .  .  As  you  know  so  much,  you  may  as 
well  know  that,  after  that  dinner,  I  knelt  staring  out  into 
the  night,  thinking  it  all  over ;  and  at  the  end  I  had  to  admit 
I  was  beaten,"  he  added  quickly. 

"That  was  what  I  rudely  described  as  the  "whipped  cur" 
note  in  your  speech,"  laughed  O'Rane.  "On  my  soul  and 
honour,  I  should  think  a  bit  better  of  you  if  you'd  quietly 
cut  your  throat.  As  you  haven't.  .  .  Look  here,  Eric, 
I've  had  one  or  two  facers  in  my  time;  and  I  think,  when 
the  smash  has  come,  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to  count  the 
arms  and  legs  that  are  left  and  see  what  show  you  can 
make  with  them.  (When  I  was  blinded,  I  did  wander  out 
in  the  approved  "Light  That  Failed"  spirit  and  try  to  take 
a  bullet  through  the  brain ;  but  to  a  certain  extent  one  had 
lost  one's  head,  and  I've  never  dared  tell  a  soul  but  George 
Oakleigh.  .  .)  It's  no  good,  I'm  sure,  preserving  an 


42  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

amputated  limb  in  spirits  of  wine.  You  forget  you've  lost 
a  hand  when  you  forget  you've  ever  had  it  to  lose.  Think 
of  yourself  as  born  one-handed;  in  other  words,  think  of 
yourself  as  a  new  personality ;  in  other  words,  don't  think  of 
yourself  at  all.  Can  you  do  that?" 

"I  suppose  it  can  be  done  if  one  makes  a  big  enough  effort." 

"Then  you'll  succeed.  .  . 

"  'A  little  onward,  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on.  .  .' 

Find  me  B  Deck,  there's  a  good  fellow.  It  always  takes  me 
about  four  days  to  feel  my  way  round  a  strange  ship.  You 
don't  want  to  talk  about  this?  I  thought  not.  .  .  But 
don't  waste  a  week  of  good  Atlantic,  skulking  in  a  hot  state- 
room. .  .  ." 

On  the  following  day  Eric  prospected  cautiously  among 
the  rest  of  the  passengers.  The  natural  selection  common 
to  life  on  every  liner  was  still  in  progress :  the  socially  am- 
bitious had  struggled  to  the  captain's  table  in  the  saloon; 
more  experienced  travellers  were  making  friends  with  the 
purser.  The  government  officials,  unconsciously  jaunty  in 
their  tweed  caps  and  life-belts,  separated  into  the  corners  of 
the  smoking-room  and  drew  up  voluminous  reports,  com- 
peting craftily  for  the  services  of  two  overworked  and  sea- 
sick shorthand-writers;  the  returning  soldiers  exercised 
themselves  with  deck-tennis  in  the  morning  and  scoured  the 
ship  for  bridge-players  in  the  afternoon.  There  were  not 
more  than  six  women  on  board,  and  these  left  Eric  alone 
when  they  had  secured  his  autograph.  A  distinction  more 
subtile  than  that  of  mere  age  sent  the  older  men  to  the  feet 
of  Mrs.  O'Rane,  while  the  younger  ranged  themselves  round 
Ivy  Maitland.  Eric  encountered  her  on  the  fifth  day,  look- 
ing no  more  than  sixteen  in  tennis  shoes  and  white  stockings, 
woollen  jersey  and  white  Tam-o'-Shanter ;  she  treated  him 
to  a  friendly  "good-morning",  when  they  met,  striding  round 


DAWN  43 

the  deck  before  breakfast ;  but  her  first  conversation  in  New 
York  did  not  encourage  her  to  make  further  advances,  and 
there  were  readier  triumphs  with  Gaymer  and  the  other 
soldiers  of  his  age. 

The  three  days  of  deliberate  isolation  had  drawn  round 
Eric  a  cordon  which  his  fellow-travellers  were  at  first  re- 
luctant to  penetrate;  but,  when  the  coast  of  Ireland  came 
in  sight,  the  general  reserve  broke  down  for  a  moment: 
Lady  John  Carstairs  hoped  that  he  would  come  and  see 
them  in  London;  Sir  Matthew  Woodstock  confessed  bluffly 
to  admiration  of  his  plays ;  and  on  their  last  night  on  board 
Ivy  Maitland,  armed  with  her  autograph-book,  stalked  him 
to  the  boat-deck  and  reminded  him  of  his  promise. 

"I  expect  you  thought  me  very  forward  in  New  York," 
she  began  brightly.  "I  did  so  want  to  meet  you.  .  .  What 
are  you  going  to  write  ?  Something  nice,  won't  you  ?" 

"How  would  'Children  obey  your  parents'  do?"  asked 
Eric. 

"Oh,  I'd  rather  have  nothing  than  that.  .  .  You  see,  you 
don't  know  father,  and  I  do.  .  ."  She  laughed  a  little 
impatiently  and  painted  a  clever  and  undutiful  picture  of 
their  life  in  the  Cromwell  Road  and  her  earliest  recollection 
of  the  overworked  junior  who  returned  at  half -past  eight 
for  a  dinner  which  he  persisted  in  ordering  for  eight,  and 
of  a  submissive  mother  who  brewed  him  cocoa  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning  and  was  too  tired  to  entertain  or  be  enter- 
tained at  night.  The  vacations,  consecrated  to  golf  at  Bran- 
caster,  had  enabled  the  two  elder  sisters  to  escape  into 
matrimony  with  a  couple  of  promising  chancery  barristers. 
(The  "promise"  was  largely  invented  by  Mr.  Justice  Mait- 
land by  means  of  a  dilemma  which  amused  his  humour  and 
saved  his  pocket.  "If  a  young  man's  worth  his  salt,  he 
doesn't  want  anything  from  me.  If  he's  not  worth  his  salt, 
don't  marry  him.  Of  course,  I  don't  expect  you  to  listen  to 
anything  /  say.  .  .").  The  two  brothers  had  drifted  from 


44  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Cambridge  into  the  army,  leaving  Ivy  to  bear  the  full  brunt 
of  her  father's  jurisdiction.  "It  was  bad  enough  before, 
but  I  couldn't  go  back  to  it  after  this." 

"What  will  you  do  ?,"  Eric  asked,  as  he  began  to  write. 

"I  want  to  live  my  own  life  .  .  .  work  .  .  .  money  of 
my  own,"  she  answered  vaguely.  "I  don't  want  to  ask  them 
for  leave  to  go  to  a  dance,  leave  to  do  this  and  that.  .  .  ." 

Eric  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  petulant  little  face  and 
made  no  comment.  Ivy  Maitland  collected  other  people's 
phrases  with  the  undiscriminating  energy  of  a  rag-picker; 
her  brain  was  fermenting  with  ill-digested  theories;  but, 
when  she  came  to  put  them  into  practice,  ignorance  or  wil- 
fulness  set  her  doing  all  the  things  that  she  should  have 
instinctively  avoided.  Decorum  habitually  took  a  holiday 
on  board  a  big  liner,  but  Ivy's  idea  of  emancipation  consisted 
in  sitting  on  the  boat-deck  with  the  least  desirable  of  the  re- 
turning soldiers.  On  the  second  day  out,  Lady  Woodstock 
had  been  compelled  to  detach  her  from  a  boisterous  ring  of 
cocktail-drinkers  in  the  smoking-room. 

"You're  very  young,  Miss  Maitland,"  he  said  at  length. 

"But  I've  been  in  all  sorts  of  places.  And  girls  nowadays 
can  take  care  of  themselves.  .  .  Well,  I  mustn't  keep  you. 
Every  one  wants  to  say  good-bye.  I  wish  I  were  famous !" 

As  she  ran  away,  Eric  settled  himself  to  the  exchange  of 
addresses  and  invitations  which  always  lent  an  insincere 
good-will  to  the  last  day  of  a  voyage.  O'Rane  he  was  careful 
to  avoid,  for,  after  the  Plaza  dinner  and  in  this  new  flattering 
farewell,  he  felt  unable  to  live  up  to  the  greatness  which  his 
admirers  thrust  upon  him,  however  much  he  might  talk  of 
the  big  effort  that  he  intended  to  make.  In  his  return  to 
England  they  saw  triumph  where  he  felt  only  despair.  Every 
mile  brought  him  nearer  to  streets  and  houses,  theatres  and 
restaurants  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  his  dead  life;  as  the 
Lithuania  steamed  majestically  into  the  Mersey,  he  felt  that 
he  was  going  into  action.  .  .  . 


DAWN  45 

As  the  great  ship  slowed  to  a  standstill,  a  boat-load  of 
assertive  officials  hurried  on  board.  Port  authorities,  health 
authorities,  emissaries  of  Scotland  Yard.  .  .  Eric  was  still 
idly  wondering  who  they  were,  when  the  chief  steward 
thrust  a  sheaf  of  telegrams  into  his  hand.  Welcome  and 
good  wishes,  welcome  and  good  wishes.  .  .  This  was  a 
reduced  replica  of  New  York !  There  were  telegrams  from 
the  family,  telegrams  from  friends,  telegrams  from  the 
theatre  and  from  half -forgotten  societies.  He  crammed  them 
uncomprehendingly  into  his  pocket,  as  a  short,  buoyant 
figure,  rime-white  in  the  mist,  lined  and  mischievous  as  a 
monkey,  steered  towards  him  and  slapped  a  crushing  hand 
of  welcome  on  to  his  shoulder. 

"Manders!" 

"Eric,  boy !  You  bet  you  never  expected  to  see  me  here ! 
The  company  came  up  three  days  ago  for  a  fortnight.  Your 
old  "Mother's  Son".  And  a  very  fair  play,  though  you  did 
write  it.  I  saw  in  all  the  papers  that  you  were  coming  home 
and,  though  they  didn't  give  the  name  of  the  ship,  I  put  my 
pants  on  the  Lithuania.  Good  old  packet!  Crossed  on  her 
a  dozen  times !  Now  look  here !  You  needn't  wait  for  the 
tender;  I've  chartered  a  motor-launch,  and  we'll  be  ashore 
half-an-hour  before  the  rest.  I  hope  you're  in  no  hurry  to 
get  back  to  town,  because  I've  ordered  a  bite  of  lunch  for 
you  at  the  Adelphi.  One  or  two  old  friends.  .  .  I'm 
mightly  glad  to  see  you  again,  boy." 

He  held  out  his  hand  a  second  time,  and  Eric  took  it  with 
the  unwillingness  of  embarrassment.  This  triumphal  progress 
was  well  enough  for  America,  but  he  could  never  live  up 
to  it  in  England.  A  semicircle  of  fellow-passengers  was 
watching  him,  wide-eyed  and  envious,  counting  the  telegrams 
which  he  thrust  half -read  into  his  pocket  and  speculating 
on  the  identity  of  Manders,  who  could  play  Marc  Antony 
or  Louis  Dubedat  on  the  stage  and  never  contrived,  in 


46  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

private  life,  to  look  anything  but  a  blend  of  pugilist,  publican 
and  book-maker. 

"Is  the  launch  here?" 

"Right  alongside,  boy." 

Eric  looked  round  and  caught  sight  of  Carstairs. 

"I  say,  have  you  room  for  some  friends  of  mine?  Lord 
John  Carstairs  is  carrying  a  Foreign  Office  bag;  if  we  can 
get  him  ashore  before  the  crowd.  .  .  And  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
O'Rane." 

It  was  late  afternoon  beiore  Eric  found  himself  locked 
into  a  reserved  compartment  with  a  dinner-basket,  a  bottle 
of  champagne  and  a  box  of  cigars.  As  the  train  steamed 
out  of  Liverpool,  he  drew  his  head  in  from  the  window, 
wrapped  a  rug  round  his  knees  and  went  to  sleep.  There 
seemed  nothing  else  to  do.  He  was  still  sleeping  when  he 
reached  Euston.  A  distracted  mob  burst  from  the  train  in 
search  of  taxis,  bending  under  suit-cases  and  wicker  baskets. 
Eric  saw  a  liveried  footman  peering  into  carriage  after 
carriage. 

"Mr.  Eric  Lane?  I  have  a  car  here  for  you,  sir."  He 
walked  five  yards  across  the  platform  and  entered  Manders' 
car.  "If  you'll  tell  me  what  your  luggage  is,  I'll  bring  that 
along,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

Still  not  more  than  half  awake,  Eric  gave  the  address  of 
his  club  and  sank  shyly  into  a  corner  of  the  great  limousine. 

Next  day  he  resumed  possession  of  his  flat  and  sniffed 
the  vibrant  air  of  London.  The  first  bewilderment  of  the 
armistice  was  yielding  place  to  the  excitement  of  the  peace 
conference  and  the  coming  general  election.  On  one  pretext 
or  another  every  second  man  in  club,  office  and  street  was 
escaping  from  England:  an  army  of  delegates  was  making 
ready  for  Paris,  a  second  army  was  assiduously  securing 
advantageous  flats  and  rooms  from  which  to  direct  the 
deliberations  of  the  plenipotentiaries.  The  restlessness 
seemed  greater  than  even  in  the  first  months  of  the  war.  and 


DAWN  47 

Eric  was  thankful  for  the  fevered  commotion.  As  Nelson 
Millbank  had  predicted,  there  was  as  great  a  revolution  in 
turning  soldiers  into  civilians  as  in  turning  civilians  into 
soldiers:  much  time  must  pass  before  they  adapted  them- 
selves to  their  new  life.  When  the  dust-clouds  cleared  away, 
Eric  would  have  made  or  found  his  niche  and  would  no 
longer  have  to  drive  in  semiregal  state  or  to  slink  through 
the  streets  like  a  fugitive  from  justice. 

"Welcome  home  expect  you  luncheon  to-morrow  Thespian 
one-thirty  Gaisford." 

The  telegram  was  the  first  that  Eric  had  opened  on  board ; 
it  was  duplicated  to  his  flat,  and,  when  he  entered  his  club, 
the  squat,  Bacchic  figure  of  the  doctor  dominated  the  hall; 
he  was  prepared  on  slight  provocation  to  extemporize  a  party 
of  twenty-four,  but,  after  a  glance  at  Eric,  he  led  him  to 
a  table  for  two  and  pondered  long  over  the  bill  of  fare. 

When  they  had  given  their  order,  each  waited  for  the 
other  to  break  silence. 

"Well,  how  are  you?,"  asked  the  doctor  at  length,  indus- 
triously polishing  his  glasses.  "You're  looking  better  than 
I've  seen  you  any  time  since  you  entrusted  your  valuable 
young  life  to  my  care.  For  my  private  satisfaction — and 
to  please  your  mother — ,  I'd  better  run  the  rule  over  you — " 

"I  didn't  think  I  should  escape  that,"  laughed  Eric. 

"You're  not  fit  to  look  after,  yourself.  You  never  were 
and  you  never  will  be ;  and  that,  friend  Eric,  is  apt  to  worry 
your  friends.  I'll  tell  you  now,  what  I  didn't  dare  tell  you 
before,  that  it  was  touch  and  go  whether  your  lungs  would 
hold  out.  They're  too  valuable  a  part  of  the  human  body  to 
be  neglected.  .  .  What's  Japan  like?" 

"The  same  as  anywhere  else,"  Eric  answered  with  a  shrug. 

The  doctor  devoted  a  connoisseur's  scrutiny  to  the  wine- 
list  before  speaking  again 

"I  suppose  the  English  papers  reached  you?,"  he  asked  at 
length. 


48 

"I  heard  in  Tokio." 

"I  was  sorry,  Eric,  very  sorry.  But  I'm  glad  it's  over." 
He  hurried  on  remorselessly  to  cover  the  whistle  of  indrawn 
breath.  "It  was  killing  you.  Whether  you're  wise  to  come 
back  so  soon — " 

"Well,  my  father's  been  very  ill,"  Eric  interrupted. 

"I  was  sorry  to  hear  it.  Are  you  going  to  otay  in  En- 
gland?" 

"Yes." 

Gaisford  attacked  his  luncheon  and  ate  for  some  moments 
without  speaking. 

"Is  that  prudent  ?,"  he  asked  at  length. 

"I  don't  suppose  she's  very  keen  to  meet  me." 

The  doctor  threw  up  his  hands  and  shook  his  head  ruefully. 

"Ah,  my  friend !  That's  where  you're  wrong.  And  your 
trade  should  have  taught  you  better  than  that.  A  woman 
doesn't  throw  aside  a  man  she's  fond  of,  a  man  who  was 
fond  of  her,  if  she  can  possibly  keep  him ;  it  makes  her  feel 
warm  and  comfortable  to  have  him  at  call.  Mark  my  words : 
she'll  try  to  get  you  back!  If  her  conscience  is  clear,  she'll 
want  to  prove  it's  clear ;  if  her  conscience  is  not  quite  clear, 
she'll  never  rest  till  she's  justified  herself." 

Eric  chewed  his  lips  and  looked  away  out  of  the  window, 
afraid  to  trust  his  own  voice. 

"Marriage  closes  all  accounts  between  us,"  he  muttered. 
"I'm  starting  afresh,  I'm  not  going  to  think  about  the  past, 
I'm  going  to  forget.  .  .  I  wonder  why  she  married  George," 
he  added  inconsequently. 

"One  woman  in  a  hundred  marries  the  man  she  wants," 
answered  Gaisford;  "the  other  ninety-nine  look  for  some 
one  they  can  at  least  tolerate."  The  bachelor's  love  of  gen- 
eralizing about  marriage  went  swiftly  to  the  doctor's  head. 
"One  man  ripens  the  peach,  and  another  always  eats  it.  ... 
Well,  George  has  embarked  on  the  great  adventure  with  his 
eyes  open:  every  one  knows  that  he  wanted  to  marry  Amy 


DAWN  49 

Loring,  only  she  was  a  Catholic ;  the  other  woman  he's  very 
fond  of,  but  she's  not  the  great  love  of  his  life.  He  felt  it 
was  time  to  get  married ;  it  was  a  passionless,  restful,  con- 
venient marriage  for  both.  Barbara's  last  act  of  independ- 
ence, by  the  way,  was  formally  to  cut  herself  adrift  from 
her  church.  .  .  ." 

Eric  felt  that  his  friend  was  helping  him  to  dismiss  the 
subject  with  an  irrelevancy ;  but,  for  all  his  talk  of  forgetting, 
he  only  wanted  to  fill  in  the  blank  pages  of  his  tragedy. 
None  knew  the  whole  truth.  Even  the  actors  were  familiar 
only  with  their  own  lines  and  scenes.  Of  the  first  act  he 
himself  only  knew  that  Barbara  had  played  with  Jack 
Waring  until  he  lost  his  head  and  embraced  her  faith  in 
the  hope  of  marrying  her :  she  continued  playing  until  a  panic 
rush  of  superstition  persuaded  her  that  she  had  imperilled 
Jack's  soul  and  must  offer  herself  blindly  in  reparation.  .  .  . 
He  did  not  know  why  Jack  had  cast  her  aside  after  keeping 
them  both  stretched  on  a  rack  for  more  than  a  year.  And 
Jack  did  not  know  that  his  best  friend  prayed  nightly  for 
his  death  so  that  Barbara  might  be  free  to  marry  him.  And, 
with  her  wild  haze  of  superstition  and  conscience,  devotion 
and  vanity,  passion  and  pose,  no  one  could  guess  what  Bar- 
bara knew.  .  .  . 

A  knot  of  members  turned  aside  from  the  pay-desk  and 
came  up  with  congratulations  and  welcome.  Eric  was 
caught  up  and  carried  along  with  them  until  it  was  time 
for  him  to  return  with  the  doctor  and  have  himself  examined. 
That  night  he  left  London  for  Hampshire.  The  sight  and 
smell  of  Waterloo  were  a  new  and  unexpected  pain,  for  the 
six-ten  was  a  Winchester  and  Crawleigh  train:  Eric  had 
travelled  by  it  a  dozen  times  with  Barbara  and,  though  he 
knew  her  to  be  away  from  London,  he  reconnoitred  the 
filling  carriages  as  though  he  feared  that  she  would  spring 
out  and  attack  him.  Once  inside  an  empty  compartment,  he 
hid  behind  his  paper,  refusing  to  look  up  when  the  door 


50  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

opened  and  only  rousing  when  a  hand  gently  patted  his  knee 
and  Jack  Waring's  voice  enquired  with  surprise: 

"Well,  Eric,  old  man,  when  did  you  get  back?  And  what 
sort  of  time  did  you  have?  D'you  know  I've  not  seen  you 
for  nearly  four  and  a  half  years?  When  I  came  home  after 
being  a  prisoner,  I  always  missed  you.  Then  you  went  off 
to  America.  .  .  Tell  me  all  about  yourself,  old  son !" 

The  voice  was  unmistakably  cordial,  and  from  Waterloo 
to  Winchester  the  two  men  discussed  themselves  and  each 
other.  Jack  Waring's  head-wound  had  incapacitated  him 
for  work  indoors ;  after  a  dozen  failures  he  was  abandoning 
the  bar  and  taking  to  horse-breeding  in  Worcestershire ;  two 
friends,  equally  maimed  by  the  war,  were  coming  into 
partnership  with  him. 

"And  there  I  propose  to  end  my  days,"  he  said.  "Thirty- 
five's  a  bit  old  to  be  making  a  new  start ;  but  I'm  alive,  when 
I  didn't  expect  to  be,  and  that's  something." 

Eric  nodded  and  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  familiar 
glimmering  lights  of  south-west  London.  In  different  ways 
but  in  equal  measure  Barbara  had  spoiled  both  their  lives; 
both  must  know  it ;  and,  now  that  she  had  left  them  for  ever, 
there  was  a  dramatic  fitness  in  their  rebuilding  an  old  friend- 
ship out  of  their  common  experience  and  disaster.  This  was 
the  fourth  act  of  their  play;  and,  after  the  catastrophe,  the 
survivors  could  meet  and  prospect  to  see  what  remained.  .  . 
In  the  gleaming  mirror  of  the  window,  Eric  studied  the 
reflection  of  his  companion's  face ;  he  was  glad  to  hear  that 
Jack  was  going  away  to  the  other  side  of  England;  after 
all,  the  old  friendship  could  never  be  revived  when  one  had 
prayed  aloud  for  the  death  of  the  other.  .  .  He  looked  up, 
startled  and  conscience-stricken ;  he  had  been  mad,  but  it  was 
Barbara  who  made  him  mad,  and  Jack's  friendship  was  part 
of  the  price  which  she  exacted. 

"I've  read  all  about  you  in  the  papers,  of  course,"  said 
Jack,  "but  I've  not  seen  you  in  the  flesh  since  the  first  months 


DAWN  51 

of  the  war.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were  ill  and  I 
walked  over  to  talk  to  you  ?  I'd  just  got  my  commission." 

"I  remember."  Eric  mustered  all  his  courage  and  plunged 
before  it  had  time  to  evaporate.  "I've  seen  you  once  since — 
in  the  distance.  You  and  your  father  and  mother  and  Agnes 
came  to  a  first  night  of  mine — " 

"Were  you  there?,"  Jack  asked  in  surprise.  "I  came  up 
on  purpose  to  see  you." 

"Only  for  a  moment.  I'd  been  ill  again  and  I  was  sup- 
posed to  be  in  bed.  I  saw  the  first  act  from  a  box,  but  I 
couldn't  sit  it  out.  You  were  all  in  the  front  row  of  the 
stalls—" 

"Oh,  I  remember  it  well." 

Eric  hurried  on  desperately: 

"It  was  almost  your  first  public  appearance  since  you  got 
back  from  Germany.  Every  one  was  congratulating  you. 
George  Oakleigh  .  .  .  and  Barbara  Neave."  He  paused, 
but  Jack's  face  told  him  nothing.  "They  were  there,  I  re- 
member. When  I  was  in  Japan,  I  saw  that  they'd  married." 

"Yes." 

Nothing  more  was  coming,  and  Eric  was  forced  to  admire 
Jack's  restraint. 

"That  was  the  last  time  I  set  foot  in  a  theatre,"  he  ended 
carelessly.  "I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  begin  again.  .  .  I've 
been  ill  off  and  on  for  some  time,  and  it's  like  making  a  new 
start  with  me.  .  .  By  the  way,  I  met  Raney  on  the  boat 
from  New  York.  D'you  remember  when  you  and  I  came 
down  from  Oxford  for  the  last  time?  I  always  felt  the 
night  before  was  like  a  vigil.  The  dawn  of  a  new  life,  a 
new  world.  .  ."  His  voice  became  wistfully  reflective ;  but 
Jack,  as  ever,  prosaically  declined  to  share  his  reverie.  "It's 
easier  to  feel  that  at  twenty-one  than  at  thirty-five.  .  ." 
Eric  went  on  with  a  laugh.  "But  I  suppose  one  must 
try.  .  .  When  do  you  start  for  Worcestershire?" 

"To-morrow.     I'm  only  coming  here  to  pick  up  clothes 


5* 

and  say  good-bye.  You  know  Agnes  is  married?  And  I 
hear  your  sister  Sybil's  engaged.  .  .  I  don't  suppose  I  shall 
see  you  again." 

"Not  at  present,  I'm  afraid." 

They  shook  hands  at  Winchester,  and  Eric  dawdled  behind 
to  identify  his  luggage.  He  never  wanted  to  see  Jack  again. 
Sometime  he  must  walk  over  to  Red  Roofs  and  pay  his 
respects  to  the  family,  but  he  would  not  go  until  Jack  was 
safely  out  of  the  way.  If  possible,  he  would  avoid  the 
house  altogether,  for  he  never  wanted  to  see  Agnes  since  her 
marriage.  Five  years  earlier  he  had  fancied  that  he  would 
like  to  make  her  his  wife;  in  those  days  they  would  have 
been  very  happy  together;  but  Barbara  had  spoiled  his 
palate  for  other  women.  .  .  . 

A  car,  driven  by  his  sister,  was  awaiting  him,  and  on  the 
familiar  road  out  of  the  town,  through  the  dripping  Lashmar 
Woods  and  across  the  water-logged  common  to  the  Mill- 
House,  he  listened  to  tidings  of  the  family.  His  father  was 
making  an  unexpectedly  good  recovery ;  his  brother  Geoffrey 
was  home  on  leave  from  the  North  Sea;  Basil  was  on  his 
way  from  Salonica ;  Lady  Lane,  though  worried  and  anxious, 
was  very  well. 

"And  what  about  you,  Sybil  ?"  Eric  asked  conscientiously. 
The  feeling  which  he  had  suspected  in  Tokio,  when  he  re- 
ceived the  news  of  her  engagement,  returned  to  perplex  and 
oppress  him ;  he  was  not  interested  in  his  family.  "Tell  me 
about  this  man  you're  marrying,"  he  added  quickly. 

"I'm  very  well,  thanks.  And  very  glad  to  see  you  again, 
Ricky." 

Her  fingers  slid  down  from  the  wheel  and  squeezed  his 
hand.  Outward  affection  from  one  so  undemonstrative  as 
Sybil  was  rare.  Perhaps  it  was  not  wholly  her  pleasure  at 
having  him  back;  he  wondered  how  much  they  had  heard 
and  guessed.  .  .  . 

The  doors  were  thrown  open  at  the  first  sound  of  the 


DAWN  53 

horn,  and  Lady  Lane  stood  silhouetted  against  the  lemon 
light  of  the  hall  with  her  husband  beside  her,  leaning  on  her 
shoulder.  Eric  hailed  them  and  sprang  out  of  the  car, 
sniffing  the  well-remembered  scent  of  pine-logs  and  submit- 
ting to  a  long  inspection  before  he  was  allowed  to  take  off 
his  coat.  The  house,  low,  warm  and  homely,  was  unchanged, 
his  mother  was  unchanged,  the  servants  were  unchanged; 
Geoffrey  came  out  of  the  library  with  his  invariable,  half- 
cleaned  gun  under  his  arm  and  the  inseparable  retriever  at 
his  side;  only  Sir  Francis  seemed  older  and  more  gaunt, 
speaking  a  little  indistinctly  and  glad  of  an  arm  when  he 
walked. 

After  the  triumphal  send-off  in  New  York,  the  splendid 
isolation  of  the  voyage  and  his  reception  in  Liverpool,  Eric 
subsided  gratefully  into  the  tranquillity  of  Lashmar  Mill- 
House.  Nobody  here  expected  him  to  play  a  part,  and  he 
could  forget  the  war  and  put  himself  back  seven  years  to 
the  time  when  he  was  an  overworked  journalist  coming  home 
to  sleep  eighteen  hours  in  country  air,  or  fourteen  years  to 
the  time  when  he  was  an  undergraduate  returning  across 
country  from  Oxford,  or  twenty-five  years  to  the  time  when 
he  was  a  schoolboy,  first  allowed  to  bring  himself  unaccom- 
panied from  Broadstairs.  .  .  He  had  promised  Gaisford,  he 
had  in  effect  promised  O'Rane  to  forget  all  that  had  hap- 
pened since  his  first  meeting  with  Barbara.  .  .  . 

"We'll  dine  at  once.  Don't  wait  to  unpack  or  dress,"  called 
out  Lady  Lane  as  he  ran  upstairs  to  his  threadbare,  bleak 
bedroom. 

Throughout  dinner  and  the  long  evening  which  followed 
he  was  kept  talking  of  America  and  Japan.  Sybil  sat  with 
her  hands  clasped  round  her  ankles,  eagerly  drinking  in  every 
word;  Geoffrey  interjected  lazy  questions  about  New  York 
and  San  Francisco,  Hawaii  and  Formosa;  Sir  Francis  sat 
lost  in  thought,  hardly  listening  to  what  was  said  but  proudly 
conscious  that  Eric  had  won  honour  on  three  continents. 


54  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Bed  time!  You  must  tell  us  the  rest  to-morrow,"  said 
Lady  Lane,  as  the  clock  struck  eleven. 

The  three  children  were  ready  to  protest,  but  she  was 
looking  at  her  husband,  whose  eyes  had  closed.  Sybil  poked 
the  smouldering  logs  into  safety;  Geoffrey  slipped  an  arm 
through  his  father's  with  a  careless,  "Going  up,  sir?"  Eric 
was  left  alone  with  his  mother.  He  knocked  out  his  pipe 
and  turned  to  her,  with  his  eyes  averted. 

"Well,  you  must  be  worn  out  with  all  your  travelling,"  she 
said,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"I'm  not  very  tired.  .  .  The  guv'nor's  better  than  I 
expected,  mother." 

"Yes,  the  first  days  were  the  worst.  I  had  to  cable  to  you, 
Eric.  If  anything  had  happened.  .  .  I  couldn't  take  the 
risk." 

"But  I'm  very  glad  you  did." 

"I  didn't  want  to  bring  you  home." 

Eric  found  a  particle  of  paper  on  the  carpet.  He  picked 
it  up  and  carried  it  slowly  to  the  fire. 

"You  knew,  then?" 

"I  guessed,  darling." 

"You  guessed  I  never  meant  to  come  back." 

"Hush,  Eric.  .  .  I  guessed  that  you  probably  felt  like 
that.  But  I  hoped  that  with  time — " 

"It  gets  worse  every  day !  I'm  waiting,  listening  for  some- 
thing to  go  snap  in  my  brain !" 

In  body  or  nerves  something  "went  snap,"  and  he  plunged 
forward,  nearly  throwing  his  mother  off  her  balance.  She 
slipped  her  arm  round  his  waist  and  walked  slowly  up  and 
down  the  room  with  him.  At  the  door  she  paused  and 
noiselessly  turned  the  key.  He  was  shaking  with  dry  sobs 
which  seemed  to  tear  him  in  pieces,  and  she  pulled  his  head 
on  to  her  shoulder,  running  her  fingers  through  his  hair  and 
once  kissing  his  neck.  Thirty  years  before  she  had  lifted 
him  out  of  bed  night  after  night,  when  he  was  crying  with 


DAWN  55 

pain,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  nursery  with  him  until 
he  dropped  in  her  arms  or  fell  asleep  standing,  with  his  head 
on  her  breast. 

"You've  grown  so  tall,"  she  whispered. 

"Since  .  .  .?  I'm  sorry,  mother!  It's  been  such  hell.  I 
couldn't  tell  you  before.  That  night,  when  you  all  came  up 
and  dined  with  me  and  said  good-bye.  .  .  I  meant  to  clear 
out  for  good  and  all.  When  we  had  a  submarine  alarm,  I 
prayed  that  we  should  be  torpedoed  and  sunk.  And  you 
knew  all  the  time?" 

"I  guessed  a  little  bit.  Mothers  do,  you  know,  darling 
child.  .  .  ." 

"It  wasn't  her  fault,  mother,"  said  Eric  with  unsteady 
emphasis. 

"You'd  always  say  that.  But  it's  over,  Eric;  have  you 
thought  what  you're  going  to  do  now?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  damaged  goods,"  he  sighed. 

"Too  bad  to  be  mended?"  She  led  him  to  a  sofa  and  sat 
down  with  his  head  on  her  shoulder  and  her  arms  round 
him.  "You're  dreadfully  thin,  Eric.  .  .  And  you've  been 
smoking  too  much.  D'you  see?  Your  fingers  are  all  yel- 
low. .  .  Darling  boy,  I'm  afraid  you  have  to  make 
another  effort,  a  big  effort.  Do  you  remember  the  doctors 
gave  you  up  three  times  before  you  were  seven  ?  And  d'you 
remember  at  Broadstairs,  when  you  lived  for  eight  months 
on  the  verandah  ?  I'm  afraid  we've  given  you  all  the  brains 
of  the  family  and  none  of  the  constitution.  But  you're  not 
going  to  give  in  now.  Victory,  Eric !  This  will  be  the  big- 
gest of  all.  .  .  In  time — " 

He  broke  away  from  her  arms  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands : 

"I've  had  two  years !" 

"You'll  forget  everything,  if  you  can  forget  yourself.  If 
you  could  lose  yourself  altogether  in  work  or  in  looking 
after  some  one — " 


56  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

There  was  a  single  sob,  and  he  had  to  fight  for  breath : 

"I  used  to  walk  up  and  down  all  night  in  front  of  her 
house,  when  she  was  ill." 

"But  that's  over.     In  time.  .  .  ." 

She  rose  and  stirred  the  fire  to  a  blaze. 

"In  time.  .  ."  Eric  murmured.  He  did  not  want  to  look 
after  any  one.  Barbara  had  destroyed  his  faith  in  women. 

"It  won't  be  our  first  big  fight,  Eric.  In  a  different  way 
I've  been  fighting  all  my  life.  Father.  And  you.  And  the 
babies.  And  Sybil.  I  thought  everything  had  come  out 
right,  before  the  war  ;  if  you'd  been  a  little  bit  stronger,  Eric, 
it  would  have  been  perfect.  When  the  war  came,  it  was  a 
bigger  fight  than  I'd  ever  had.  You  were  ill.  .  .  and  I 
knew  you  weren't  happy.  And  anything  might  have  hap- 
pened to  Geoff  and  Basil.  And  then,  of  course,  your  father's 
illness.  .  .  ." 

Eric  slid  on  to  the  floor,  resting  his  head  against  her  knee 
and  gently  turning  her  rings  from  side  to  side. 

"You  don't  get  much  rest,  mother." 

"I'm  happier  when  I  have  one  of  you  to  look  after." 

"I  feel  I've  been  such  a  brute  to  you  all." 

"Perhaps  I  understood.  .  .  Eric,  if  you  want  to  go 
away  again,  I  shan't  stop  you." 

"No,  I'm  going  back  to  the  old  life.  I  must  start  wt>rk 
again.  .  .  and  try  to  feel  it's  worth  doing.  I  meant  to  funk 
it  all,  but  now  I'm  determined  to  win.  .  .  We  won't  talk 
about  this  again,  mother.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  hardly 
of  her,  and  you  must  never  let  any  one  attack  her.  .  .  A 
new  life  from  to-day,"  he  ended  jerkily.  "Dawn.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  THREE 

THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD 

"Eastward  was  the  wise  man's  course.  .  .  .  Mr.  Polly  saw  him- 
self going  along  it  with  all  the  self-applause  a  wise  man  feels. 
But  somehow  it  wouldn't  come  like  that  .  .  .  the  figure  went 
slinking  .  .  .  and  would  not  go  otherwise  than  slinking.  He  turned 
his  eyes  westward  as  if  for  an  explanation,  and  if  the  figure  was 
no  longer  ignoble,  the  prospect  was  appalling. 

"  'One  kick  in  the  stummick  would  settle  a  chap  like  me/  said 
Mr.  Polly. 

"  'Oh,  God !'  cried  Mr.  Polly,  and  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and 
said  for  the  last  time  in  that  struggle,  'It  isn't  my  affair!' 

"And   so  saying,  he   turned  his    face   towards   the    Potwell    Inn. 

"He  went  back,  neither  halting  nor  hastening  in  his  pace  after 
this  last  decision,  but  with  a  mind  feverishly  busy. 

"  If  I  get  killed  I  get  killed,  and  if  he  gets  killed,  I  get  hung. 
Don't  seem  just  somehow.  .  .' " 

H.  G.  WELLS  :    "THE  HISTORY  OF  MR.  POLLY." 

"We  should  be  so  pleased  if  you  could  dine  with  us  on 
Friday,"  said  Lady  John  Carstairs  on  the  threshold  of  the 
O'Ranes'  house.  "I  never  had  an  opportunity  of  thanking 
you  for  your  kindness  in  getting  us  off  the  boat  so  early.  It 
will  be  only  a  small  party,  but  you'll  meet  one  or  two  friends 
from  America.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  before,  but  we're  only 
now  beginning  to  get  our  house  straight." 

Eric  thought  over  the  invitation  in  the  moment  allowed 
him  for  consulting  his  engagement-book.  He  had  intended 
to  begin  work  on  a  new  play,  but  his  friends  and  the  strange 
monster  of  an  adoring  public  that  he  had  conjured  into  ex- 
istence refused  to  leave  him  in  peace.  For  a  week  after  his 
return  to  England  the  illustrated  papers  were  publishing 
photographs  of  him;  four  reporters  called  in  two  days  to 
learn  his  plans  for  the  future  and  his  impressions  of 
America ;  by  letter  and  telegram  he  was  begged  to  write  and 

57 


58  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

speak  on  the  fruits  of  his  tour ;  and,  when  he  had  deflected 
the  applicants  to  the  office  of  his  agent,  there  remained  pri- 
vate appeals  less  easy  to  shelve  or  refuse.  The  dramatic 
circle  of  the  Thespian  Club  organized  a  dinner  in  his  honour ; 
Dr.  Gaisford  bade  him  to  "a  strictly  bachelor  party"  of  his 
friends  and  admirers;  he  was  asked  to  take  the  chair  for 
the  Actors'  Pension  Fund;  and  the  Penmen's  Club  invited 
him  to  be  the  guest  of  honour  at  their  weekly  luncheon. 

Mingled  with  the  official  invitations,  the  unofficial  rained 
down  upon  him.  It  was  a  repetition  of  the  personal  triumph 
which  he  had  enjoyed  when  his  first  play  was  produced. 
Lady  Maitland,  Mrs.  Shelley,  Lady  Poynter,  Mrs.  Manisty 
and  a  dozen  more  urged  him  to  lunch  or  dine  with  them; 
war  and  peace  made  no  difference  to  them,  a  man  might 
travel  to  the  end  of  the  world  and  back  to  find  them  still 
chewing  the  cud  of  their  sparse  culture.  If  his  position  in 
London  three  years  before  had  been  incredible  even  to  him, 
he  was  forced  to  believe  now  that  his  absence  abroad  had 
mysteriously  consolidated  it:  then  the  critics  had  bracketed 
him  with  Pinero  and  Barrie  for  the  excellence  of  his  stage- 
craft and  with  Shaw  for  the  wit  and  virility  of  his  dialogue, 
in  him  they  saw  and  blessed  the  promise  of  the  future ;  now, 
though  he  had  written  nothing  in  the  interval,  they  chose 
to  regard  the  promise  as  fulfilled.  "Among  the  younger 
playwrights,"  wrote  the  grudging  editor  of  "Green-room  and 
Studio,"  "it  is  unsafe  to  predict  who  will  step  into  the  shoes 
of  the  men  we  have  named.  Always  excepting  Mr.  Eric 
Lane,  whose  niche  is  assured  to  him.  .  ."  The  public 
seemed  to  take  its  time  from  the  press;  the  enthusiasm  of 
those  who  knew  him  reacted  on  those  who  had  yet  to  meet 
him;  and  for  a  month  he  was  whirled  from  house  to  house 
in  a  sandstorm  of  adulation. 

When  he  could  see  and  breathe  again,  Eric  discovered  gaps 
in  the  well-remembered  catalogue  of  names :  Lady  Crawleigh 
and  Lady  Knightrider  at  least  knew  too  much  or  suspected 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     59 

too  much  or  had  enough  consideration  not  to  ask  him  to 
their  houses ;  but  Lady  John  Carstairs'  invitation  was  a  test- 
case.  If  he  accepted,  Eric  was  sure  to  meet  other  of  Lady 
Barbara's  relations  there ;  but,  even  as  he  wavered,  he  knew 
that  he  dared  not  surrender  to  shyness. 

"I  should  love  to  come,"  he  answered,  as  they  went  for- 
ward to  shake  hands  with  their  hostess. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  was  signalizing  her  return  from  America  by 
assembling  all  of  her  many  friends  who  had  resisted  the  lure 
of  the  peace  conference  or  the  south  of  France.  During  the 
war  Eric  had  attended  sufficient  of  her  parties  to  recoil  from 
their  noise  and  studied  hilarity,  but  he  was  by  now  so  much 
sated  with  the  pompous  entertaining  of  such  intellectuals  as 
Lady  Poynter  that  he  welcomed  the  informality  of  a  Bo- 
hemian frolic.  Here  at  least  he  would  be  screened  by  the 
shadow  of  some  later  and  more  modish  celebrity.  As  he 
came  into  the  long,  crowded  library,  a  space  was  being  cleared 
in  the  middle;  while  their  leader  explored  the  quality  of 
the  floor,  a  group  of  dancers  with  only  their  heads  and  ballet 
slippers  protruding  from  a  swathing  mass  of  cloaks  and 
shawls  stood  whispering  in  one  corner.  A  tentative  chord  was 
struck,  the  wrappings  slid  to  the  ground,  and  the  dancers 
pattered  forward  on  tip-toe  with  their  arms  arched  above 
their  heads. 

Eric  was  trying  to  see  who  was  present  when  Amy  Loring 
came  up  with  a  radiant  smile  of  welcome. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again !,"  she  whispered.  "Sonia 
told  me  you'd  crossed  by  the  same  boat,  and  I  came  here  on 
purpose  to  meet  you.  I  do  hope  you're  quite  strong  again 
now." 

"I've  as  clean  a  bill  of  health  as  our  friend  Gaisford  is 
ever  likely  to  give  me,"  Eric  laughed.  For  a  moment  he  had 
felt  his  muscles  tightening  in  embarrassment  and  could  only 
think  of  a  dinner  at  Lady  Crawleigh's  house  when  Amy 
had  given  him  the  same  glowing  smile  of  encouragement ;  she 


60  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

had  bathed  in  his  happiness  at  being  in  love  with  her  cousin 
and  had  exhorted  him  to  go  on  and  prosper  in  disregard  of 
any  obstacles  that  Barbara's  father  might  impose.  Eric 
wondered  whether  she  remembered  that  night  as  vividly  as 
he  did.  Gais ford's  name  touched  another  note  in  his  brain, 
and  he  remembered  the  doctor's  telling  him  that  George 
Oakleigh  had  once  been  in  love  with  her;  it  was  an  old, 
familiar  tale,  and,  until  a  few  months  before,  the  gossips 
had  predicted  that  neither  of  them  would  ever  marry.  In 
the  act  of  wondering  whether  she  felt  any  resentment  to- 
wards George  or  Barbara,  Eric  realized  that  she  was  too  big 
of  heart  to  grudge  happiness  to  any  one.  "I'm  most  awfully 
glad  to  see  you  again !,"  he  added,  unconsciously  pressing  her 
hand. 

As  they  turned  to  watch  the  dancing,  Eric  recalled  that  he 
had  never  before  met  Amy  in  the  O'Ranes'  house.  After 
her  brother's  jilting  at  Sonia's  hands,  the  two  families  had 
found  it  more  comfortable  not  to  meet ;  they  were  apparently 
now  reconciled,  and  any  one  could  choose  between  thinking 
that  they  had  drifted  together  in  the  irresistible  cross- 
currents of  London  and  imagining  that  the  more  generous 
had  made  overtures  of  friendship.  Behind  the  warmth  of 
her  greeting  Eric  had  fancied  the  diffidence  of  a  suppliant, 
as  though  Amy  were  offering  him  amends  on  behalf  of  all 
her  kin ;  he  realized  that  he  could,  if  he  liked,  live  in  retire- 
ment, but  that,  if  he  came  back  to  the  old  life,  he  must  try 
to  shew  as  much  graciousness  and  as  little  rancour  as  Amy 
displayed  towards  those  who  fell  below  her  own  exalted 
standard  of  chivalry. 

"You  don't  see  a  chair  anywhere  .  .?,"  he  heard  her 
murmuring. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  stake  out  a  claim  at  the  supper-table?," 
he  asked.  "I  was  wondering  if  you  were  dining  with  the 
Carstairs  next  week.  .  .  Oh,  well,  don't  you  think  you 
might  get  Lady  John  to  invite  you?  It's  so  very  long  since 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD    61 

I've  seen  you;  and  it's  impossible  to  talk  here.  .  .  London 
hasn't  changed  much  in  the  last  two  years." 

"Or  the  last  five.  I  wonder  if  we're  going  straight  back 
to  1914.  .  .  I've  not  been  to  a  party  of  this  kind  since  the 
war.  It's  not  very  amusing.  .  .  ." 

The  scenes  from  the  ballet  were  followed  by  a  pianoforte 
solo;  Harry  Manders  poured  forth  a  stream  of  stories; 
Deganway  gave  imitations;  and  Pentyre  accompanied  him- 
self on  a  banjo,  until  a  restless  group  headed  by  Gaymer  sug- 
gested clearing  away  the  furniture  for  a  dance.  Eric,  too, 
was  finding  but  little  amusement  in  Mrs.  O'Rane's  strenu- 
ous programme  and  would  have  preferred  to  talk  in  peace 
to  Amy  Loring  or  go  home  to  bed.  This,  he  decided, 
would  be  the  last  party  of  its  kind  which  he  could  spare 
time  to  attend;  for  a  moment  he  had  wandered  aimlessly 
in  the  wilderness  of  London,  waiting  to  light  upon  anything 
that  would  occupy  his  thoughts.  Nothing  had  come  to  him, 
and  he  recognized  that  he  must  find  his  refuge  in  work. 

"I'm  too  old  for  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  murmured  to  Amy. 

"I  can't  remember  ever  being  young  enough,"  she  answered 
with  a  smile. 

The  heat  and  noise  were  by  now  almost  unbearable ;  high 
spirits  were  rising  by  imperceptible  shrill  stages  to  rowdiness ; 
and,  as  Gaymer's  deputation  pressed  insistently  for  its  dance, 
the  older  members  of  the  party  began  to  look  at  their 
watches. 

"Anything  you  like,  if  you'll  only  wait  until  every  one's 
had  something  to  eat — ,"  cried  Mrs.  O'Rane,  leaving  the 
supper-table  to  pacify  Gaymer. 

"Oh,  they'll  go  on  all  night,  Sonia !  We — want — a — dance. 
Come  on,  Gerry,  all  together !  Pentyre !  One,  two,  three ! 
We — want — a — dance — We — want — a — dance." 

The  three  men  ranged  themselves  against  a  wall  and 
shouted  through  their  open  fists  like  trumpeting  heralds. 

At  the  second  repetition,  those  nearest  to  them  joined  in 


62  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

the  measured,  relentless  chorus,  drowning  the  efforts  of  a 
girl  at  the  piano  and  reducing  Mrs.  O'Rane  to  helpless 
gesticulation. 

"Wait  till  the  end  of  this!,"  she  begged  in  an  interval  of 
silence. 

"We — want — a — dance !" 

"But  it's  so  rude !" 

Gaymer  laughed  and  whispered  to  his  companions. 

"Do — not — shoot — the — pi-an-ist. — She — is — do-ing — her 
— best,"  rose  the  new  chorus;  then,  with  swelling  menace, 
"WE— WANT— A— DANCE." 

It  was  impossible  to  sing,  play  or  argue  against  the  con- 
certed uproar,  and  after  a  moment's  indecision  Mrs.  O'Rane 
gave  orders  for  the  rugs  and  furniture  to  be  moved.  Her 
husband  apologized  to  the  interrupted  musician,  and  Eric 
was  leading  Amy  Loring  away  when  Gaymer  petitioned  for 
the  first  dance. 

"Lady  Amy's  promised  it  to  me,"  Eric  improvised. 

"The  feller's  cut  me  out,"  commented  Gaymer  with  hu- 
morous solemnity.  "The  next  one,  then?" 

"Didn't  you  ask  me  to  find  your  car  after  that?,"  Eric 
enquired. 

"  'Better  go  somewhere  where  I  am  wanted,"  muttered 
Gaymer.  "No  objection  to  my  asking,  was  there?  'Hate 
to  give  offence,  you  know.  Nod  as  good  as  a  yrink,  you 
know.  Pardon  granted  as  soon  as  asked  ?" 

As  they  drove  back  to  Loring  House,  Amy  thanked  Eric 
for  his  intervention. 

"I'm  afraid  Johnny's  rather  deteriorated  since  the  war," 
she  mused.  "He  was  always  rather  wild,  but  he  never  used 
to  be  rowdy.  There  was  quite  an  unpleasantness  at  Kathleen 
Knightrider's  last  week;  I  believe  she  had  to  ask  him  to 
go.  .  .  If  he'd  only  drink  less.  .  .  ." 

When  Eric  arrived  at  Queen  Anne's  Gate  the  following 
week,  he  found  that  Lady  John  had  conscientiously  assem- 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD    63 

bled  a  novelist  and  war-poet  to  keep  him  in  countenance; 
the  "friends  from  America"  were  represented  by  Sir 
Matthew  and  Lady  Woodstock,  an  attache  from  the  embassy, 
David  O'Rane,  his  wife  and  Sir  Matthew's  former  secretary. 
After  that  she  seemed  to  have  surrendered  to  her  new  family 
by  inviting  the  Duchess  of  Ross,  Amy  Loring  and  Phyllis 
Knightrider ;  and,  when  Eric  entered  the  drawing-room,  she 
cut  short  her  welcome  to  tell  the  butler  that  Captain  Gaymer 
had  asked  whether  he  might  dine  and  to  order  another  cover 
to  be  laid.  The  dinner  promised  to  be  peaceful  and  proved 
so  dull  that  Eric  had  to  invent  an  excuse  for  leaving  early: 
he  had  now  sketched  the  ground-plan  of  a  new  play  and, 
though  he  could  as  yet  feel  no  enthusiasm  for  it,  he  con- 
scientiously tried  to  recover  his  old  habit  of  regular  work. 

"If  you'll  wait  till  half -past  ten,  we'll  drop  you,"  volun- 
teered Gaymer.  "Ivy  and  I  are  going  to  a  dance  of  sorts, 
and  I've  chartered  a  taxi  for  the  night." 

Eric  remembered  that  it  was  raining,  when  he  arrived,  and 
decided  that  his  vague  distaste  for  Gaymer's  society  was 
weaker  than  his  dislike  of  wet  pavements. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  he  answered.  "A  taxi  for  the 
night  sounds  luxurious." 

"Necessary,"  answered  Gaymer.  "Can't  be  bothered  to 
fight  for  the  beastly  things  or  walk  home  at  three  in  the 
morning.  I  can  do  without  everything  except  personal 
comforts.  This  fellow's  been  ticking  up  tuppences  ever  since 
Armistice  Day;  I  suppose  he'll  have  to  be  paid  some 
time.  .  .  'Wonder  if  Amy'd  like  a  lift." 

As  he  crossed  the  room,  Eric  sat  down  in  the  empty  chair 
by  Ivy  Maitland's  side.  It  was  ungracious  to  accept  a  favour 
from  a  man  and  then,  in  the  next  breath,  to  disparage  him ; 
but,  after  Gaymer's  unmannerly  conduct  at  Mrs.  O'Rane's 
party,  any  one  might  feel  a  little  sorry  to  see  Ivy  becoming 
his  friend.  Before  the  war  he  had  been  a  leader  in  the 
disorderly  little  group  of  roystering  practical  jokers  headed 


64  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

by  Jack  Summertown  and  Pentyre;  and,  though  the  Air 
Force  had  kept  him  employed  for  three  or  four  years,  he 
seemed  now  to  be  casting  about  for  fresh  forms  of  dissipa- 
tion and  rather  aimless  mischief.  While  Ivy  was  too  young 
and,  at  heart,  too  timid  to  amuse  him  for  long,  her  behaviour 
on  the  boat  had  been  feather-brained;  it  was,  of  course, 
their  business,  but  Eric  would  have  preferred  to  see  her 
with  some  one  who  checked  her  youthful  craving  for  inde- 
pendence instead  of  exciting  it. 

"Where  are  you  dancing?"  he  asked  her. 

"Ssh!  Please!,"  she  whispered.  "I  wish  Johnnie  hadn't 
shouted  it  out  like  that !  Mother'd  have  a  fit,  if  she  knew  I 
was  going  to  a  dance  alone." 

Eric  wondered  for  a  moment  whether  she  was  yielding 
to  the  youthful  temptation  of  trying  to  shock  him. 

"Your  parents  seem  still  to  be  a  great  trial  to  you,"  he 
observed. 

"I've  made  some  impression  on  them.  Johnnie's  got  me  a 
job  at  the  Air  Ministry,  and  they've  allowed  me  to  take  it. 
The  real  fight's  coming  when  I  tell  them  I've  taken  rooms 
of  my  own." 

"Are  you  going  to  live  alone?" 

"I  think  so.  The  girl  who  was  coming  with  me  has  cried 
off.  .  .  Now,  it's  no  use  finding  fault  with  me,  because 
I've  absolutely  made  up  my  mind.  I  must  lead  my  own 
life!" 

"I  think  it's  an  awful  mistake,"  said  Eric  with  a  shrug. 
"You're  much  too  young,  much  too  good-looking.  .  ." 
After  saying  good-bye  at  Liverpool,  he  had  forgotten  her 
very  existence;  but  in  a  short  and  flimsy  blue  dance-frock, 
with  blue  stockings,  shoes  and  head-band  she  was  younger 
and  more  provocative  than  he  remembered  either  at  their 
first  meeting  in  New  York  or  on  board  the  Lithuania. 
"Girls  of  nineteen  do  not  leave  home  and  set  up  house- 
keeping on  their  own,"  he  added. 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     6$ 

"But  why  shouldn't  they?    I  know  several  who  do." 

It  was  waste  of  breath  to  tell  any  one  so  superficially  self- 
confident  that  a  girl  of  nineteen  might  need  protection  from 
risks  older  and  more  insidious  than  she  would  deign  to 
admit.  His  eyes  wandered  for  a  moment  to  the  corner 
where  John  Gaymer  was  talking  to  Amy  Loring;  it  was 
hard  for  one  man  to  say  what  attraction  any  other  man 
exerted  over  women,  but  Gaymer  was  undeniably  popular; 
without  being  handsome,  he  was  more  than  presentable  in 
appearance,  with  an  immaculate  shell;  the  war  had  proved 
his  strength  and  reckless  courage,  and  he  comported  himself 
towards  women  with  a  devil-may-care  assurance  that  oc- 
casionally degenerated  into  a  brutality  which  they  did  not 
seem  to  resent.  It  was  his  business  if  he  embarrassed  him- 
self with  Ivy  Maitland's  adoration  and  hers  if  she  chose  to 
fall  in  love  with  him.  .  .  Eric  tried  to  recall  what  he  had 
seen  of  their  manner  to  each  other :  Gaymer  had  apparently 
forced  himself  upon  the  party  when  he  heard  that  Ivy  was 
dining,  but  this  was  perhaps  no  more  than  a  convenient 
means  of  meeting  his  partner  before  the  dance ;  he  had  shewn 
her  only  the  boisterous  attention  that  he  held  in  readiness 
for  all  women  who  would  accept  it;  and,  if  they  were  in 
love,  neither  would  welcome  a  third  person  in  the  taxi.  .  .  . 

Eric's  attention  was  recalled  to  Ivy  when  he  heard  her 
proclaiming  rather  petulantly: 

"Somebody  must  make  a  start." 

"You've  not  yet  convinced  me  that  you've  any  great  hard- 
ships to  put  up  with  at  home,"  he  answered,  with  difficulty 
suppressing  a  yawn. 

"They  aren't  great.  They're  small,  absurdly  small.  But 
they're  innumerable  and  everlasting.  Now,  take  to-night. 
When  I  met  Johnnie  last  week  at  Mrs.  O'Rane's,  we  found 
that  we  danced  rather  well  together.  He's  frightfully  good 
at  games  and  everything — " 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  him  ?'J  Eric  interrupted. 


66  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Not  much.    Do  you?" 

"Nothing  at  all.  I've  met  him  on  and  off  for  some  years, 
but  in  all  the  time  I've  never  seen  as  much  of  him  as  I  saw 
of  you  that  night  in  New  York.  On  general  principles,  don't 
you  think  it's — imprudent;  aren't  your  parents  justified  in 
thinking  it's  imprudent  for  you  to  tumble  into  an  intimacy — 
not  with  Gaymer,  but  with  any  man  of  whom  you  know 
absolutely  nothing?" 

"But  women  have  instincts  about  men!  I  should  be  no 
better  off  if  I  dragged  him  away  and  introduced  him  to 
mother  and  made  her  invite  him  to  dinner.  I  daresay  that's 
more  conventional,  but  it  doesn't  do  any  good." 

Eric  hesitated  long  enough  to  ask  himself  why  he  inflicted 
so  much  advice  on  a  very  raw  child,  but  not  long  enough  to 
answer  his  own  question. 

"It  puts  your  relationship  on  a  different  footing,"  he  sug- 
gested. "When  a  man's  been  to  your  house  and  eaten  your 
salt,  he  feels  a  responsibility  to  the  house.  Look  at  it  this 
way :  during  the  last  week,  how  have  you  differed  in  essence 
from — let  me  say — a  chorus-girl  who  dines  with  a  man  and 
goes  to  a  dance  with  him  and  lets  him  help  her  to  get  taken 
on  at  a  new  theatre  ?  I  don't  suggest  that  there  are  no  differ- 
ences, but  what  differences  are  there  for  a  man  like  Gaymer 
to  see?" 

Ivy  looked  at  him  in  perplexity  which  was  too  strong  to 
allow  resentment  to  creep  in. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  and  both  were  glad  when 
the  taxi  was  reported  to  be  at  the  door. 

As  he  read  his  letters  and  looked  with  distaste  at  the  work 
awaiting  him  on  the  morrow,  Eric  reviewed  with  morose 
dissatisfaction  the  five  weeks  that  had  passed  since  his  return 
to  England.  He  had  sighed  with  boredom  at  the  cultured 
table  of  Lady  Poynter ;  and  in  the  conscientiously  Bohemian 
setting  of  Mrs.  O'Rane  the  boredom  had  only  been  compli- 
cated by  amazement.  (He  scrawled  a  blue-pencil  "Refuse" 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     67 

across  four  invitations  and  tossed  them  into  his  secretary's 
letter-basket.)  He  had  interested  himself  for  a  moment  in 
Ivy  Maitland,  at  least  to  the  extent  of  giving  her  some  good 
advice ;  but  her  pert  assurance  was  a  little  tiresome,  and  he 
was  now  only  interested  to  wonder  how  soon  John  Gaymer 
would  weary  of  it.  At  the  Mill-House  he  had  tried  to  win 
his  way  back  to  a  place  in  his  own  family,  but  they  had 
mysteriously  stood  still  and  he  had  wandered  into  a  spiritual 
wilderness  of  his  own.  Even  his  work  no  longer  promised 
him  a  way  out  of  the  wilderness,  but  it  might  keep  him  from 
brooding  over  the  astounding  emptiness  of  life. 

He  had  achieved  a  dull  quiescence  of  spirit  when  he  read 
in  Christmas  week  that  Mr.  and  Lady  Barbara  Oakleigh 
had  returned  to  London  from  Ireland  and  were  leaving 
England  for  the  Riviera  after  a  few  days  in  Hampshire. 
That  night,  on  his  way  to  Winchester,  Eric  chose  a  compart- 
ment at  the  back  of  the  train  to  avoid  all  chance  of  meeting 
her  in  the  Crawleigh  or  Southampton  coaches.  His  window 
commanded  two-thirds  of  the  platform,  and,  five  minutes 
before  the  train  was  due  to  start,  he  caught  sight  of  Oakleigh 
and  a  footman  hurrying  by,  with  Barbara  half  a  pace  behind 
him.  Valentine  Arden  had  christened  her  "the  haggard 
Venus" ;  her  big  sunken  eyes  and  white  cheeks  had  a  morbid 
fascination  of  their  own,  compelling  as  ever;  physical  deli- 
cacy and  nervous  vitality  still  contended  for  possession  of 
her  tall,  wasted  body ;  tragedy  and  defiance  alternated  in  the 
swift  changes  of  her  expression,  as  she  flashed  by  the  window 
of  his  compartment.  For  all  his  resolution  and  training, 
Eric  felt  his  heart  stop  as  it  had  stopped  in  Tokio,  when  he 
read  the  news  of  her  marriage;  when  the  red  mist  lifted 
from  his  eyes,  he  looked  at  her  again  from  behind  the  screen 
of  his  paper,  surprised  to  see  no  change :  the  green  morocco 
travelling-cushion  still  bore  the  old  "B.N."  in  one  corner; 
he  recognized  her  fur-coat,  and  George  was  carrying  the 
red  leather  jewel-case  which  he  had  carried  for  her  fifty 


68  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

times.  At  their  first  meeting  she  had  criticized  his  first  play, 
offering  to  re- write  it,  telling  him  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
'Life'  and  proposing  herself  as  instructor. 

"Oh,  well.  .  .  This  is  Life,  I  suppose,"  Eric  whispered 
to  himself. 

To  have  seen  her  would  break  the  shock  of  meeting  her 
on  her  return  to  England,  but  he  was  glad  that  she  was  going 
abroad;  the  shock  would  have  to  be  broken  by  instalments, 
widely  separated,  if  he  was  to  acquit  himself  without  dis- 
grace. He  wondered  how  much  she  had  ever  told  her 
husband.  He  wondered  how  much  she  dared  admit  to  her- 
self. .  .  At  Winchester  he  jumped  on  to  the  platform, 
before  the  train  stopped,  and  ran  out  of  the  station,  before 
any  curious  head  could  reconnoitre  from  the  windows  of 
the  Crawleigh  and  Southampton  coaches. 

Finality.  .  .  Eric  turned  up  his  collar  and  sank  lower 
in  the  seat  of  the  car.  He  did  not  want  Sybil  to  see  his  face. 
Christmas  Eve.  .  .  Three  years  ago  to  a  day  he  had 
reached  finality ;  Barbara  was  falling  in  love  with  him,  when 
she  had  sworn  by  the  Cross  to  offer  herself  in  reparation 
to  Jack  Waring :  and  in  those  easy,  sane,  clear-cut  days  Eric 
had  decided  to  end  their  intimacy  before  either  clouded  it 
with  tragedy.  And  then  she  had  appealed  to  his  compassion 
and  sent  for  him  .  .  .  perhaps  to  see  if  he  could  continue 
to  resist  her.  And  he  had  gone  back ;  and  his  resistance  had 
broken  down.  A  man  only  paid  for  his  own  weakness.  .  .  . 

But  it  was  finality  to  see  her  running  along  the  platform 
arm-in-arm  with  her  husband.  .  .  . 

"Basil's  home,"  said  Sybil,  as  they  left  the  town.  "He 
got  back  yesterday  and  demobilized  himself  this  morning." 

"Oh,  good  work!    I've  not  seen  him  for  three  years." 

"It's  the  first  Christmas  since  the  war  that  all  three  of  you 
have  been  home." 

His  two  brothers  had  walked  out  to  meet  the  car,  and  at 
the  sparse  edge  of  Lashmar  Woods  they  sprang  out  like 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     69 

highwaymen  and  secured  themselves  on  the  running-boards. 
Lady  Lane  and  her  husband  were  waiting  for  them  in  the 
hall,  and,  when  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  no  one  could  believe 
that  they  had  been  scattered  for  nearly  five  years.  The 
obliteration  of  time  was  all  that  Eric  needed  to  complete  his 
sense  of  finality.  For  three  days  they  talked  and  chaffed  one 
another,  exhuming  time-honoured  jests  and  bandying  stdries 
and  experiences  from  four  continents. 

Half-consciously  Eric  realized  that  he  was  reviving  an 
atmosphere  of  the  past  to  avoid  thinking  of  the  future ;  but, 
when  each  had  told  the  tale  of  his  wanderings,  all  looked 
beyond  the  smoke  and  fire  of  the  war  to  a  world  which  might 
be  peaceful  but  would  certainly  be  drab. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  Basil?,"  asked  Eric  at 
breakfast  on  his  last  morning. 

"Well,  if  a  grateful  Government  has  kept  open  my  job  in 
the  India  Office,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  start  in  there — 
just  as  if  there'd  been  no  jolly  little  war." 

"And  I'm  going  back  to  the  dear  old  China  Station,  just 
as  if  there'd  been  no  jolly  little  war,"  added  Geoffrey. 
"Everything's  going  to  be  rather  flat.  .  .  Hullo!  Perfectly 
good  postman  with  Yuletide  greetings  for  all  of  us!"  He 
bounded  out  of  the  room  and  helped  in  the  sorting.  "You've 
got  more  than  your  fair  share,  Ricky." 

"You  can  have  them  all,  if  you'll  pay  the  bills,"  answered 
Eric.  "Or  I'll  pay  the  bills,  if  you'll  accept  the  invitations 
and  go  in  my  place.  Would  you  like  to  lunch  with  Lady 
Poynter?  Her  husband  had  some  marvellous  port  a  couple 
of  years  ago.  Or  dine  with  Mrs.  Shelley?  I  can  give  you  a 
list  of  her  cliches:  a  book  always  "creates  an  illusion"  with 
her,  and  modern  poetry  is  "the  pendant  to  a  mood".  I  can't 
honestly  recommend  her.  Misguided  women  who  think  I 
still  dance.  .  .  Or  you  may  dine  with  Mr.  Justice  and 
Lady  Maitland ;  I  don't  know  them,  but  you're  sure  to  get 
a  good  dinner,  because  their  daughter  says — here  it  is,  if  you 


70 

don't  believe  me — 'My  father  is  so  anxious  to  meet  you.'  " 

"Sounds  as  if  you'd  been  trifling  with  her  young  affec- 
tions," said  Geoffrey.  "Take  my  advice  and  don't  go." 

"I've  no  intention  of  going,"  Eric  answered.  "I've  work 
to  do." 

In  the  New  Year  he  shut  himself  up  with  the  first  draft 
of  a  play  and  for  three  months  only  left  his  flat  for  an  hour's 
vralk  each  day  in  the  Green  Park.  Sometimes,  as  he  sat 
bent  before  his  miniature  theatre,  marshalling,  drilling  and 
dismissing  his  little  card-board  figures,  he  could  fancy  Bar- 
bara's eager,  low  voice  at  his  side,  her  breath  warm  on  his 
cheek,  and  the  keen,  sweet  scent  of  carnations  once  more,  at 
each  lithe  movement  of  her  body,  filling  the  room  where  in 
other  years  she  had  argued  out  his  plays  line  by  line ;  some- 
times, as  he  read  his  speeches  aloud,  he  caught  himself 
pausing  for  her  judgement  of  their  rhythm;  and,  when  the 
first  rehearsal  was  called,  he  knew  that  he  would  find  her 
ghost  sitting  with  clasped  hands  on  a  stool  by  his  feet ;  on 
the  first  night  it  would  await  him  in  his  box,  defying  him  to 
bring  any  one  else  to  a  seat  already  taken. 

"But  this  is  Life,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "I.  .  .  I 
told  Gaisford  I  was  going  to  forget  about  all  this." 

As  soon  as  the  new  play  was  mentioned  in  the  theatrical 
gossip  of  the  press,  he  received  the  usual  appeals  from  un- 
known men  and  women  to  be  given  a  trial.  As  usual  he  sent 
them  bodily  to  Manders  and,  as  usual,  instructed  his  secretary 
and  servants  to  admit  no  one  who  called  without  a  satisfac- 
tory explanation.  Manders  hoped  to  begin  rehearsing  in 
the  late  summer  and  to  produce  the  play  in  the  autumn ; 
Eric  had  too  much  other  work  on  hand  to  waste  his  scanty 
leisure  on  stage-struck  amateurs;  he  had  not  seen  a  play 
since  his  return  to  England  and  was  beginning  to  forget  the 
highly-charged,  conventionally  unreal  atmosphere  of  the 
theatre. 

A  week's  conscientious  study  of  contemporary  drama  sat- 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     71 

isfied  him  that,  whatever  else  the  critics  might  say  of  "The 
Gate  of  Horn",  they  would  not  degrade  it  by  comparison 
with  any  of  the  plays  that  he  had  felt  constrained  to  see.  On 
the  last  night  of  his  penance  he  was  escaping  into  the  Strand 
from  the  unknown  people  who  persisted  in  bowing  to  him, 
when  a  girl,  standing  by  herself  a  few  paces  ahead,  turned 
carelessly  and  bade  him  good-evening  in  a  diffident  and 
rather  surprised  voice. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  see  who  it  is,"  Eric  had  to  confess. 
"I'm  as  blind  as  a  bat,  when  I  come  out  of  a  theatre." 

"It's  Ivy  Maitland.    You  wouldn't  remember  me." 

"Indeed  I  do.    Are  you  all  by  yourself?" 

"Yes.  I  came  with  a  man,  but  he — he  had  to  go  before 
the  end." 

"Then  you  must  let  me  see  you  home,"  said  Eric  after  a 
moment's  hesitation  which  he  hoped  she  would  not  notice. 
"It's  the  Cromwell  Road,  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Not  now.  I — in  spite  of  your  advice.  .  .  I  really 
couldn't  stand  it  any  longer  at  home.  But  you  mustn't  come 
out  of  your  way;  I'm  only  .a  step  from  here — at  the  back 
of  the  Adelphi." 

"Let  me  see  you  as  far  as  the  door.  .  .  Well,  I  hope  it's 
a  success." 

They  crossed  the  Strand  and  dived  through  a  hidden  court- 
yard and  down  a  flight  of  steps  before  she  answered : 

"I  can't  say  it  is — so  far." 

"Come!  that's  honest!,"  said  Eric.  "If  you've  the  moral 
courage  to  admit  it's  a  failure,  why  don't  you  have  the 
greater  moral  courage  to  chuck  the  whole  thing  up  ?" 

"Ah !  I  can't  do  that."  She  stopped  in  front  of  a  door 
and  felt  for  her  latch-key.  "I  suppose  you  wouldn't  come 
in,  if  I  asked  you?" 

Eric  pretended  to  look  at  his  watch  and  even  walked  away 
to  the  nearest  lamp-post,  where  he  looked  at  it  again.  He 


72  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

had  still  two  hours'  work  to  do,  but  the  girl's  dejection  of 
voice  and  her  candid  admission  of  failure  touched  him. 

"Are  you  all  alone?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  You  won't  compromise  me;  and  I  shouldn't  mind 
if  you  did,"  she  added  with  a  touch  of  her  old  impatience. 
"I  was  thinking  of  you.  You're  so  well-known — " 

"If  you're  all  by  yourself.  .  .    I'm  thinking  of  you — " 

"Ah,  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  come !" 

She  sighed  gently  and  held  out  her  hand.  Loneliness  and 
the  sense  of  failure  seemed  to  have  taken  away  all  her 
vitality :  her  hand  was  cold  and  limp,  and  her  head  drooped 
as  though  she  lacked  the  strength  to  keep  it  erect. 

"Let  me  come  to  tea  some  day,"  Eric  suggested. 

"Oh,  you're  too  busy.     It  wouldn't  be  fair." 

"I'm  not  too  busy  for  that." 

"Aren't  you?"  She  made  a  pitiful  attempt  to  collect  the 
fragments  of  her  pride ;  but  the  drooping  head  and  unsteady 
lips  belied  the  valiance  of  her  voice,  and  haughtiness  passed 
quickly  into  petulance.  "You  were  too  busy  to  dine  with  us, 
when  I  invited  you;  you  were  too  busy  to  see  me  when  I 
called  on  you,  too  busy  even  to  answer  my  letter." 

Eric  stared  at  her  in  amazement : 

"Miss  Maitland,  I  simply  don't  understand!  I  couldn't 
dine  with  you,  because  I  never  dine  out  when  I've  a  play  on 
hand.  But  the  call  and  the  letter—" 

"Your  maid  said  you  couldn't  see  me,  as  I  hadn't  an  ap- 
pointment." 

"I  must  apologize  for  her.  She  probably  thought  you'd 
come  to  ask  for  an  engagement." 

"I  had".  And  that's  what  I  wrote  about.  You  said  in 
New  York  that  I  might  come  to  you  for  help ;  I  couldn't  go 
to  your  club,  because  father's  a  member.  Didn't  you  get 
my  letter?" 

"If  it  had  anything  to  do  with  the  theatre,  I  don't  suppose 
I  finished  it;  all  those  things  are  sent  on  to  Manders.  I'm 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     73 

sorry,  Miss  Maitland ;  I  wouldn't  have  disappointed  you  for 
the  world." 

"I  began  to  feel  desperate,"  she  answered  dully.  "It 
seemed  needlessly  unkind.  Of  course,  1  ought  to  have 
known  that  you  were  very  famous — " 

"Please!  I've  apologized.  I  hoped  I'd  cleared  myself. 
Won't  you  choose  your  own  time  for  coming, — if  you  think 
I  can  do  any  good  ?" 

She  swung  her  latch-key  reflectively  and  then  touched  his 
arm  with  her  fingers. 

"Won't  you  come  in — just  for  a  moment  ?"  she  pleaded. 

"I'm  thinking  of  you,"  he  repeated. 

"You'll  do  me  more  good  by  coming  in  for  five  minutes 
than  by  thinking  of  my  reputation.  .  .  I'm  desperate." 

"That's  the  second  time  you've  used  that  word;  you 
oughtn't  to  know  the  meaning  of  it." 

"Ah,  if  you  come  in,  don't  treat  me  like  a  child." 

Eric  followed  her  into  a  narrow,  ill-ventilated  hall,  lighted 
by  a  pin-point  of  gas.  The  house  was  old  and  full  of  half- 
heard  noises  and  dry,  distant  scents;  the  first  floor  was  let 
to  a  solicitor,  the  second  to  a  dramatic  agent ;  above  that  was 
a  double  flat  and  at  the  top,  crushed  squat  under  the  roof 
and  pared  by  sloping  ceilings,  Ivy  Maitland's  own  roomy 
attic.  As  she  turned  up  the  gas,  he  saw  a  round  table  and 
wicker  chairs,  a  piano  and  book-case  and,  in  an  alcove,  a 
cupboard,  bed  and  chest  of  drawers.  While  she  slipped  off 
her  cloak  and  pulled  the  curtains  over  the  alcove,  he  read  the 
titles  of  the  books  and  glanced  at  the  photographs  on  the 
piano.  The  place  of  honour  was  given  to  an  officer  in  the 
uniform  of  the  Air  Force,  and  Eric  guessed  its  identity 
almost  without  looking  at  the  face  or  at  the  "Yours  always, 
John  Gaymer,"  scrawled  across  one  corner. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?  It's  a  miserable  fire,  I'm  afraid," 
she  apologized,  dropping  on  to  her  knees  and  battering  un- 
scientifically with  a  bent  poker  on  the  top  of  three  sadly 


74  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

smouldering  lumps  of  coal,  each  too  big  for  the  tiny  grate. 

"I'm  not  cold,  thanks.  .  .  How  long  have  you  been  in 
these  quarters?" 

"Two  months." 

"And  who  looks  after  you  ?" 

"A  woman  comes  in  and  cooks  my  breakfast  and  cleans 
the  place.  I  usually  have  my  other  meals  out."  Eric  was 
not  conscious  that  his  expression  had  changed,  but  the  girl 
looked  up  piteously  and  turned  away  to  the  fire.  "Don't  look 
so  disapproving!  I'm  not  defending  myself!" 

"My  dear  child,  I'm  not  attacking  you.  Haven't  I  come 
here  solely  to  find  out  if  I  can  be  of  any  assistance  to  you  ?" 

She  jabbed  at  the  fire  in  reflective  silence,  and  Eric,  watch- 
ing her  through  half -closed  eyes,  seemed  to  see  rippling 
waves  of  unhappiness,  disappointment,  loneliness  and  dis- 
comfort rising  until  they  submerged  her  and  she  ceased  to 
struggle.  She  was  white  and  tired ;  her  arms  were  thin  and 
her  shoulder-blades  sharply  outlined  under  the  green  gauze 
of  her  dress,  as  she  stolidly  poked  the  fire  and  refused  to 
look  at  him.  The  air  of  assured  efficiency  which  she  had 
worn  in  New  York  never  seemed  more  than  the  assertive 
protest  of  extreme  youth  against  patronage;  her  abandon- 
ment of  it  now  suggested  that  she  habitually  attacked  and 
then  ran  away,  first  disregarding  advice,  then  admitting  her 
mistake  where  a  stronger  woman  would  have  converted  it 
into  success  and  where  a  prouder  woman  would  have  pre- 
served silence.  Perhaps  it  was  too  much  to  expect  great 
strength  or  pride  in  a  girl  of  nineteen  whose  head  was  still 
fermenting  with  unassimilated  catch-words. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come.  And  it  was  awful 
cheek  of  me  to  ask  you." 

"Imagine — for  one  night — that  I'm  quite  human,"  Eric 
suggested. 

She  jumped  up  and  ran  to  the  door. 

"You'd  like  a  drink !,"  she  exclaimed. 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     75 

"Is  that  the  differentia  of  the  human  man?"  he  laughed. 

There  was  a  clink  of  glasses  outside,  and  she  returned  with 
a  bottle  of  brandy  and  a  box  of  cigars.  While  he  was  mix- 
ing himself  a  drink,  she  slipped  with  apparent  aimlessness 
behind  him,  and  he  heard  something  drop.  When  he  looked 
round,  the  signed  photograph  of  John  Gaymer  had  disap- 
peared, and  she  was  holding  out  a  tumbler  for  him  to  fill. 

"I'm  not  going  to  give  you  brandy,"  he  said,  picking  up 
the  syphon  of  soda-water. 

"Just  a  little!     I'm  so  tired." 

"Not  a  drop!  If  you  start  drinking  brandy  at  nineteen 
— because  you're  tired — ,  where  d'you  think  you'll  be  at 
thirty?" 

"I  don't  much  care!"  she  answered.  "I  believe  those 
cigars  are  quite  good.  Won't  you  try  one  ?" 

"Not  if  you're  going  to  sleep  in  this  room,  thanks,"  he 
answered. 

"I  don't  mind  it — honestly,"  she  said. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  I've  been  smoking  all  day.*' 

Eric  composed  himself  as  comfortably  as  possible  in  a 
room  where  everything  jarred  upon  him.  She  ought  not  to 
have  been  living  there  by  herself,  she  was  lonely,  uncom- 
fortable and  probably  ill-fed ;  she  ought  not  to  allow  a  man 
to  come  and  see  her,  she  ought  not  to  dream  of  drinking  a 
brandy  and  soda,  she  ought  not  to  have  brandy  or  cigars  in 
the  house,  she  ought  not  to  know  that  she  did  not  mind  in- 
haling cigar-smoke  in  her  sleep.  The  incident  of  the  photo- 
graph recurred  to  his  mind,  and  he  wondered  whether  he  was 
being  offered  refreshment  which  she  had  provided  for  Gay- 
mer. .  .  and  whether  she  had  dropped  the  photograph  be- 
hind the  piano  because  she  was  ashamed  of  him.  .  .  or 
whether  they  had  quarrelled,  whether  it  was  Gaymer  who 
had  taken  her  to  the  theatre  and  abandoned  her.  .  .  . 

"I  haven't  seen  you  since  that  night  at  the  Carstairs',"  she 
began.  "You  remember?" 


y6  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"When  I  gave  you  good  advice.     Yes." 

"Well,  I  tried  to  follow  it.  I'm  not  altogether  a  fool  and, 
thinking  it  over,  I  thought  I  saw  what  you  meant.  After 
the  dance  Johnnie  asked  me  to  go  to  another.  .  .  It  was 
very  hard  to  do,  but  I  tried  to  let  him  see  that,  though  it  was 
all  right,  of  course.  .  .  I  invited  him  to  come  and  dine  with 
us.  That  was  what  you  wanted,  wasn't  it?" 

"I  thought  it  was  better,  certainly.  Though,  why  you 
think  my  advice — " 

"Because  you  know  about  things,  you're  clever,  you've 
met  everybody,  you  can  understand  people  and  write  about 
them.  Father's  in  such  a  rut.  .  .  Well,  Johnnie  came. 
That  was  when  I  wanted  you  to  meet  him.  He  wasn't  much 
of  a  success,  I'm  afraid." 

"What  happened?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  He  argued  .  .  .  and  father  always 
expects  an  enormous  lot  of  deference  from  boys.  Father 
said  afterwards  that  Johnnie  had  drunk  much  too  much  for 
a  young  man  and  had  become  very  impertinent.  After 
that,  of  course,  he  wasn't  invited  again,  and  mother  kept 
nagging  and  trying  to  make  me  give  up  my  job  in  his  office. 
We  had  an  awful  row  one  day,  just  because  I  dined  with 
Johnnie  and  came  back  rather  late  after  the  theatre.  Father 
said  I  wasn't  to  go  out  with  him  and  that,  as  long  as  I  lived 
at  home,  he  expected  me  to  obey  him.  I  decided  that  I 
couldn't  live  at  home  any  longer.  Johnnie  found  me  these 
rooms.  .  .  ." 

She  coughed  and  took  a  sip  of  her  soda-water. 

"You  consulted  him?" 

"Yes.  He  made  me  see  that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to 
leave  home.  .  .  ." 

Eric  sat  suddenly  upright  and  then  relaxed  to  his  former 
attitude,  noting  with  quick  thankfulness  that  his  movement 
had  been  unobserved. 

"What  made  you  write  to  me?"  he  asked. 


THE  WILDERNESS  OF  THIS  WORLD     77 

"Well,  you  see,  everybody  in  my  department  is  being  de- 
mobilized, so  I  wanted  a  jbb.  I  saw  you  had  a  new  play — " 

"Already  cast,"  Eric  interrupted.  "And  we  could  cast 
the  third  footman  five  times  over  with  people  who've  played 
respectable  parts  for  years.  There's  nothing  there,  Miss 
Maitland,  I'm  afraid.  Even  if  there  were,  I'd  sooner  see 
you  living  with  your  parents  again — " 

"I  can't  go  back." 

"I  see.     Well,  what  are  you  living  on?" 

"I  saved  a  little  money  when  I  was  with  Sir  Matthew. 
When  that's  gone—" 

"Oh,  Gaymer  would  see  you  didn't  starve  or  get  turned 
into  the  street,"  said  Eric  with  soft  irony. 

"Yes.    At  least  he  said  he  would — " 

"Before  you  quarrelled,"  he  suggested. 

She  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"Who  told  you  we'd  quarrelled?"  she  asked. 

"You  did.  Miss  Maitland,  however  unconventional  you 
want  to  be,  you  can't  take  money  from  a  man.  I'd  most 
gladly  lend  or  give  you  fifty  pounds  to-night,  but  you  couldn't 
possibly  accept  it.  You  see  that?" 

"Of  course!     I  hardly  know  you." 

Eric  shook  his  head  in  bewilderment,  as  he  tried  to  deter- 
mine whether  she  was  naturally  stupid  or  wholly  unso- 
phisticated. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  Gaymer  ?" 

Ivy  hesitated  before  answering,  and  Eric  felt  that  he  was 
not  going  to  hear  the  truth. 

"I  like  him  when  he's  nice  to  me,"  she  answered  in- 
differently. 

"Is  he  in  love  with  you?" 

"He  likes  me.  He  likes  so  many  people,"  she  said,  as 
carelessly  as  before. 

Eric  nodded  slowly  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Well,  good-night.     I'll  do  what  I  can." 


78 

Though  he  could  promise  her  little,  she  was  better  for  the 
companionship  and  talk.  In  opening  the  door,  he  turned 
and  saw  her  watching  him ;  but  now  she  was  spiritless  again, 
her  hands  were  clasped  in  front  of  her,  her  shoulders  were 
bowed,  and  she  looked  crestfallen,  limp  and  fragile.  Re- 
membering how  irritation  at  her  pertness  had  warmed  to 
impatient  dislike  on  board  the  Lithuania,  Eric  blamed  himself 
for  intolerance  towards  a  child  whose  worst  crime  was  her 
childishness. 

"Have  you  a  telephone  here?"  he  asked. 

"There's  one  downstairs  that  I  use.     Shall  I  shew  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  thanks."  Impulse  sent  him  back  into  the  room ; 
and  he  shook  hands  with  her  again,  as  though  to  postpone  for 
an  instant  the  silent  chill  of  loneliness  which  he  could  feel 
already  settling  upon  her.  Gaymer  had  contrived  to  make 
the  girl  uncommonly  miserable ;  and,  though  unhappiness  was 
a  universal  distemper  of  the  soul,  though  Eric  had  told  him- 
self that  Ivy's  relations  to  Gaymer  were  their  own  business, 
he  knew  that  he  could  comfort  her  spirit  by  putting  an  arm 
round  her  thin  shoulders,  by  kissing  her  forehead  and  allow- 
ing her  to  sob  out  her  simple  perplexity  and  pain  of  heart. 
A  hundred  anguished  memories  warned  him  of  the  price 
that  he  had  already  paid  for  compassion;  common  sense 
cried  out  that  this  was  not  his  affair.  And  yet,  unless  he 
made  it  his  affair,  no  one  would;  and  he  had  now  learned 
wisdom  and  knew  where  to  stop.  "What  I  meant  was:  if 
you  ever  feel  lonely,  ring  me  up  and  have  a  talk.  I'm  nearly 
always  at  home,  night  and  day.  I'm  not  too  busy  for  that. 
Suggest  a  day  for  lunch.  I  lead  a  fairly  solitary  life  myself." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 
EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS 

Qui    monet   amat. 

PROVERB. 

"Can  you  spare  a  moment  to  see  me  some  time?  You  may 
remember  Mrs.  O'Rane's  party  and  a  young  man  whom  we 
agreed  not  to  like.  I  want  to  find  out  all  I  can  about 
him.  .  .  ." 

Amy  Loring  lay  in  bed,  frowning  over  Eric's  note  and 
weaving  interpretations  of  its  discreet  brevity.  After  tele- 
phoning to  invite  him  to  tea,  she  read  the  letter  again  with 
mingled  curiosity  and  misgiving.  Obviously  the  man  in 
question  was  John  Gaymer ;  no  less  obviously  John  Gaymer 
had  been  up  to  mischief.  It  was  not  easy,  however,  to 
establish  a  connection  between  him  and  Eric,  unless  he  had 
been  up  to  mischief  with  the  little  Maitland  girl ;  Amy  had 
overheard  enough  of  a  conversation  between  them  at  the 
Carstairs'  dinner  to  realize  that  a  certain  intimacy  existed; 
and  she  had  not  failed  to  detect  in  Eric  at  least  a  paternal 
attitude  towards  a  girl  whose  eyes  just  perceptibly  brightened 
when  he  spoke  to  her. 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  she  contrived  a  meeting  with 
Gaymer's  aunt  Lady  Poynter;  encountering  Lady  Maitland 
at  luncheon,  she  mentioned  Ivy's  name  and  returned  home  in 
time  for  tea  with  a  collection  of  opinions  which  crystallized 
in  the  vigorous  statement  that  Mr.  Justice  Maitland  was  a 
fool,  Gaymer  a  cad  and  Ivy  a  child  whom  one  had  not  seen 
since  she  was  a  baby. 

79 


8o  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"What  is  it,  exactly,  that  you  want  to  find  out?,"  asked 
Amy  when  Eric  arrived. 

"I  hardly  know.  .  .  I've  met  this  girl  half  a  dozen  times ; 
she's  a  nice  child,  but  rather  impulsive  and  very  easily  led. 
She's  not  happy  at  home,  and  I  fancy  she's  allowing  Gaymer 
to  lead  her.  .  .  Let  me  put  it  this  way:  if  she  wer£  your 
sister,  would  you  entrust  her  to  him  with  an  easy  mind?" 

Amy  shook  her  head  emphatically : 

"No!  I  daresay  I'm  old-fashioned.  .  .  Mr.  Lane,  I'm 
waiting  for  a  hideous  scandal — not  with  her,  poor  child,  but 
with  all  these  girls  who've  broken  away  from  home  during 
the  war,  all  the  men  too,  who've  been  allowed  so  much 
liberty  with  girls  that  they've  lost  the  old  reverence  that  men 
like  you  or  my  brother  Jim  had.  The  parents  are  to 
blame—" 

"But  the  children  suffer,"  Eric  interrupted.  "That's  an 
epitome  of  the  world's  history.  And  it's  equally  true  if  you 
put  it  the  other  way  round.  .  .  But  what  are  we  to  do  with 
this  girl?" 

A  fleeting  glance  at  Eric's  worried  eyes  told  her  that  he 
was  less  concerned  for  the  world's  history  of  suffering  than 
for  Ivy's  immediate  welfare;  his  use  of  the  plural  shewed 
that  they  were  to  be  joined  in  a  common  rescue;  and  her 
mind,  seizing  the  possibility  that  Eric  might  be  in  love, 
bounded  forward  to  consider  whether  he  should  be  helped  to 
fall  deeper  in  love  with  a  girl  who  possessed  superficially 
little  more  than  the  daintiness  and  intoxicating  lure^  of 
adolescence. 

"Tell  me  about  her,"  she  suggested.  "I  should  like  to 
help  if  I  could." 

Eric  described  their  fragmentary  conversation  in  New 
York,  on  the  Lithuania,  at  Lady  John  Carstairs'  and  in  Ivy's 
attic  behind  the  Adelphi,  adding  guesswork  sketches  of  the 
establishment  in  the  Cromwell  Road  with  an  unsympathetic 
father  and  a  helpless  mother.  Neither  the  range  of  his  in- 


EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS  81 

formation  nor  his  manner  of  giving  it  betrayed  any  great  in- 
timacy. 

"Has  she  any  other  relations?,"  asked  Amy. 

"Two  brothers — demobilized  and  back  at  Cambridge — we 
can  rely  on  them,  I  suppose,  to  intervene  with  the  usual 
horse- whip,  if  things  go  too  far — ;  and  two  sisters  who've 
married  and  shed  all  responsibility.  .  .  Perhaps  you  wonder 
what  I'm  doing — " 

"It's  very  natural.     She's  an  attractive  child." 

"I'm  not  in  love  with  her  or  anything  of  that  kind.  I 
don't  think  she's  in.  .  .  danger,  but  I'd  do  anything  to  keep 
her  from  being  vulgarized." 

Amy  busied  herself  with  the  tea  for  a  few  moments. 

"I  think  she's  a  little  bit  in  love  with  you.  .  ."  she  ven- 
tured, when  she  had  given  his  momentary  warmth  time  to 
pass  away.  "Oh,  tiny  things  that  only  a  woman  sees.  She 
admires  you  enormously;  and  she's  flattered  that  you  take 
an  interest  in  her.  That  strengthens  your  position." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  mix  myself  up  in  it,"  cried  Eric  im- 
patiently. "One  can't  altogether  stand  aside.  .  .  Every- 
body's business  is  nobody's  business,  and  that  girl  needs 
some  one  to  take  an  interest  in  her.  As  she  doesn't  get  on 
well  with  her  parents,  I  was  wondering  if  her  aunt  could  be 
persuaded  to  take  charge  of  her.  All  this  revolt  of  the 
young  girl  is  rooted  in  boredom;  it's  the  descent  of  Nemesis 
on  the  Cromwell  Road.  If  Connie  Maitland  gave  her  a 
good  time  and  introduced  her  and  let  her  see  that  people 
would  simply  cut  her  if  she  went  off  on  her  own,  she'd  soon 
drop  this  aspect  of  provincialism.  Can't  you  play  on  her 
vanity?  A  girl  like  that  would  much  sooner  be  a  success  in 
society  than  a  rebel  against  society;  she'd  sooner  marry  the 
second  cousin  of  a  baronet  than  live  with  the  greatest  poet 
or  painter  of  all  the  age.  .  .  That's  the  object  of  my  call. 
Forgive  me  for  boring  you  like  this!" 


82  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"You  haven't  bored  me.  I  took  quite  a  fancy  to  her.  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do." 

Eric  left  the  house  with  relief  that  he  had  transferred  to 
other  shoulders  the  responsibility  for  Ivy's  welfare.  From 
the  library  window  Amy  watched  his  thin  figure  striding 
away,  with  what  she  chose  to  construe  as  rapid  purposeless- 
ness,  until  it  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  Clarges  Street ; 
for  Ivy's  sake  it  was  worth  her  while  to  take  a  little  trouble, 
and,  if  Eric  were  truly  in  love  with  her,  she  would  take  very 
great  trouble  indeed;  but  that,  she  decided,  she  would  not 
know  until  she  saw  how  impatiently  he  came  to  enquire  what 
was  being  done.  For  all  she  knew,  he  was  befriending  Ivy 
from  vague  good  nature — as  she  was  befriending  him — ; 
Eric  was  one  of  the  men  for  whom  most  women  felt  a  mild 
and  transitory  tenderness  because  he  was  nearly  always  too 
much  preoccupied  to  be  aware  of  it. 

When  she  had  put  herself  in  communication  with  Lady 
Maitland,  Amy  waited  for  another  visit  from  Eric,  but  for 
several  weeks  he  was  too  busy  with  his  play  to  think  about 
Ivy;  and,  as  she  did  not  avail  herself  of  his  general  invita- 
tion to  lunch  with  him,  he  could  only  assume  that  her  posi- 
tion was  no  more  "desperate"  than  before.  A  month  after 
his  call  at  Loring  House,  Amy  took  the  initiative  and  wrote 
to  say  that  the  judge  had  gone  away  on  circuit  and  that  his 
sister-in-law  was  to  take  charge  of  Ivy  until  her  father's  re- 
turn, when  the  position  could  be  reconsidered. 

"I  think  she'll  behave  sensibly  and  go  back  home,"  Amy 
added  when  they  met  one  night  at  Lady  Poynter's.  "Ivy 
and  I  have  become  great  friends;  and  I'm  sure  that  John 
Gaymer  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  trouble.  First  of  all  he 
flattered  her  and  dared  her  to  break  loose ;  then  he  neg- 
lected her,  then  he  made  a  fuss  of  her,  then  he  roused  her 
jealousy.  After  that  he  could  do  what  he  liked  with  her. 
But  I'm  thankful  to  say  that  he's  sheered  off  now,  and  you 
can  rely  on  Connie  to  give  her  other  things  to  think  about." 


EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS  83 

Eric  looked  thoughtfully  across  the  room  to  the  corner 
where  Mrs.  O'Rane  and  Gaymer  were  talking  in  whispers. 
Throughout  dinner  Lady  Poynter,  whose  latest  intellectual 
relaxation  was  in  the  works  of  Freud  and  Jung,  had  been 
interpreting  all  human  relationships  in  terms  of  psycho- 
analysis ;  adopting  her  language,  Eric  found  that  all  this  re- 
mote, whispered  discussion  of  Gaymer  had  created  a  fan- 
tastic image  of  a  man  sinister  and  dissolute,  bearing  on  his 
face  the  stamp  of  evil  passions  and  the  ravages  of  de- 
bauchery. False  images,  Lady  Poynter  explained  with  an- 
nihilating sweeps  of  a  massive  arm,  could  only  be  corrected 
or  dispelled  by  contact  with  reality.  It  was  a  relief  and  a 
disappointment  to  Eric  that  he  could  detect  no  change  in 
form  and  features  which  always  seemed  to  have  been  cut  by 
a  machine ;  Gaymer  was  powerfully  built  with  sturdy  limbs, 
broad  shoulders  and  back,  a  muscular  neck  and  big-boned 
wrists  and  hands,  the  whole  so  well  proportioned  and  knit 
together  that  his  true  height  and  breadth  were  unsuspected. 
In  face,  manner  and  dress  he  had  set  himself  to  be  conven- 
tional to  the  verge  of  commonplace.  His  hair,  black  and 
straight,  was  cut,  oiled  and  brushed  back  from  the  fore- 
head, as  though  straight  black  hair  could  be  treated  in  no 
other  way;  his  blue  Air  Force  uniform,  vividly  new  and 
well-fitting,  was  built  and  worn  unremarkably  but  with  a 
suggestion  that  it  could  not  be  worn  otherwise.  He  moved, 
smiled  and  spoke  as  if  he  were  trying  to  suppress  all  personal 
characteristics;  and  everything  about  him  was  ready-made 
except  his  clothes. 

Eric  pretended  to  be  judicial  when  he  knew  that  he  was 
on  the  look-out  for  faults ;  but  there  was  no  fault  to  find, 
unless  a  man  was  to  be  hanged  for  impatiently  lighting  a 
cigarette  while  waiting  for  dinner — and  Mrs.  O'Rane  be- 
gan to  smoke  before  the  fish-plates  had  been  taken  away — ; 
these  were  war -manners.  Eric  watched  and  listened;  but, 
like  the  others  of  his  set,  Gaymer  talked  like  a  gramophone 


84  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

and  thought  not  at  all.  Failing  to  condemn,  Eric  tried  to 
appreciate;  but  Gaymer's  exasperating  suppression  of  per- 
sonality left  nothing  to  admire.  The  set  had  agreed  to  put 
on  humorous  Cockney  records;  Mrs.  O'Rane  and  Gaymer 
were  improvising  a  duologue  to  represent  one  shop-girl 
bidding  another  good-bye  at  a  station,  and  fragments  of 
their  speech  floated  across  the  room  to  mingle  incongruously 
with  Lady  Poynter's  undefeated  exposition  of  psycho- 
analysis :  "I  should  'a  thought  A  Certain  Person  would  'a 
come  and  seen  you  off,  dearie.  .  ."  "Ow,  'e  knows,  when  I 
want  'im,  I'll  send  for  'im;  and  not  before.  You  will  write, 
dearie?  I  love  letters.  And  you'll  send  my  washing  on; 
I'm  in  me  old  lodgings"  .  .  .  "You  won't  be  'tingry,  missing 
tea  and  all?"  .  .  .  "Thenks,  I  'ad  a  nice  bit  of  cold  fish 
before  I  started.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  see  the  fascination,"  Eric  murmured,  turning 
away  after  a  last  look  at  Gaymer.  Any  other  healthy  animal 
in  good  condition,  well  washed  and  groomed,  enjoying  his 
food  and  drink,  would  be  as  attractive. 

"Perhaps  it's — impersonal,"  Amy  suggested.  "I've  been 
trying  to  make  out  why  so  many  girls  marry  in  such  a 
hurry.  Partly  it's  instinct,  of  course,  and  partly  it's  just 
recklessness;  when  your  husband  might  be  killed  any  mo- 
ment, it  didn't  much  matter  who  you  married.  But  far  more 
often,  I'm  sure,  girls  marry  something  symbolical  in  a  man 
rather  than  the  man  himself.  They  see  a  man  in  a  top 
hat,  and  he's  nothing  in  particular;  they  hear  of  him  doing 
something  wonderfully  brave,  and  he's  a  very  different 
person  to  them ;  he's  a  hero,  he's  been  fighting,  while  they — 
with  perhaps  just  as  much  bravery — can't  use  it." 

"They  marry  the  sex  and  not  the  individual,"  Eric  sug- 
gested. 

Amy  nodded  and  looked  across  the  room  as  though  to 
contrast  Ivy's  youth  with  her  own  grave  maturity. 

"Yes,  and  in  twelve  or  fifteen  years'  time,  when  she's  my 


EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS  85 

age,  she'll  know  that  it  doesn't  matter  what  a  man  represents 
symbolically  or  what  he  is.  But  what  he  will  be,  how  he'll 
wear.  .  .  ." 

"I  believe  Gaymer  was  incredibly  brave  until  his  smash," 
said  Eric. 

"And  never  really  sober  from  one  week's  end  to  another. 
He  must  have  a  wonderful  physique.  .  .  That's  another 
thing:  I  wonder  how  much  of  the  immorality  and  unhappi- 
ness  of  the  present-day  is  caused  by  a  sort  of  shell-shock. 
It's  a  great  excuse;  it  may  also  be  a  reason.  .  .  Have  you 
seen  Ivy  since  our  talk?" 

"No,  but  I  believe  we're  to  meet  on  the  opening  night  of 
the  opera." 

When  Eric  entered  Lady  Maitland's  box  the  following 
week,  he  found  Ivy  recovered  from  her  melancholy  and 
pleasurably  excited  by  the  amusement  and  occupation  which 
her  aunt  was  contriving  as  a  means  of  shewing  her  that, 
whatever  changes  the  war  had  effected  and  whatever 
"those  freakish  people  in  Chelsea  and  St.  John's  Wood" 
might  do,  it  was  social  outlawry,  self-imposed,  for  a  girl  of 
her  age  and  position  to  live  alone;  and  it  was  a  pity  to  be 
outlawed  before  she  knew  anything  of  the  life  to  which  she 
was  saying  good-bye. 

Eric  participated  in  the  conspiracy  to  the  extent  of  con- 
ducting Ivy  round  the  house  in  the  second  entr'acte.  Though 
most  of  the  singers  were  new  to  London,  Covent  Garden 
had  regained  very  much  of  its  old  appearance.  War,  in- 
deed, and  the  passage  of  five  years  had  expunged  some  well- 
known  names  from  the  box  doors;  Bertrand  Oakleigh's 
place  was  taken  by  a  war  contractor,  the  double  box  in  which 
Sir  Deryk  Lancing  used  to  sit  restless  and  alone,  half -hidden 
by  the  curtains,  had  passed  to  Lady  Poynter.  But,  though 
new  names  were  occasionally  seen  and  certain  old  names  had 
taken  on  a  British  ring,  the  changes  were  inconsiderable. 


86  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Is  there  any  one  you'd  like  to  call  on?,"  he  asked  Ivy. 

"I  haven't  seen  any  one  I  know." 

"You're  to  be  envied."  Eric  bowed  vaguely  and  found 
himself  caught  up  by  three  different  women  in  as  many- 
minutes.  "Let's  go  back,"  he  suggested,  as  he  took  off  the 
last  of  them.  "I'm  tired  of  telling  people  that  I'm  too  busy 
to  lunch  out;  and,  though  I  hate  work,  I  think  it's  prefer- 
able to  the  average  luncheon-party." 

He  picked  up  his  opera-glasses  and  began  identifying  and 
describing  to  her  the  occupants  of  the  other  boxes. 

"If  /  had  genius — ,"  Ivy  began  diffidently. 

"But  I  haven't,  Miss  Maitland,"  he  interrupted.  Adu- 
lation was  at  any  time  a  weariness,  and  he  had  not  under- 
mined her  alliance  with  Gaymer  in  order  to  attract  her  to 
himself.  "You  mistake  fashion  for  fame.  I've  written  half 
a  dozen  successful  plays.  .  .  I'm  glad  to  see  you  here  to- 
night. This  is  a  better  frame  for  you  than  a  garret  behind 
the  Adelphi." 

Ivy  left  the  challenge  where  it  lay. 

"I've  never  been  to  the  opera  before,"  she  said.  "I  shall 
come  as  often  as  Aunt  Connie  has  room  for  me." 

"So  shall  I,"  answered  Eric,  "whenever  she  or  you  invite 
me.  That's  one  of  the  few  things  I'm  not  tired  of." 

It  was  only  when  he  had  found  Lady  Maitland's  car  for 
her  and  sent  Ivy  home  in  it  that  he  recalled  his  own  words 
and  wondered  whether  she  was  reading  an  unintended  en- 
thusiasm into  them.  Her  big  grey  eyes  seemed  startled 
when  the  lights  were  turned  on  at  the  end  of  the  third  act ; 
and,  though  she  said  nothing,  he  felt  their  light  upon  him. 
They  were  still  startled  at  the  opera's  end  and  looked  over  her 
shoulder  at  him,  as  he  helped  her  into  her  cloak.  When  they 
said  good-night,  she  drew  away  her  hand  as  though  his 
touch  sent  a  shock  through  her  body,  but  she  was  turning  to 
see  the  last  of  him  as  the  car  glided  away  from  the  door. 

During  the  next  fortnight  Eric  received  three  invitations 


EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS  87 

by  telephone  and  two  by  letter;  but  he  recalled  Amy 
Loring's  hint  and  determined  to  avoid  that  one  box  until 
Ivy  had  lived  down  any  suspicion  that  she  was  in  love  with 
him;  he  excused  himself  until  he  felt  that  Lady  Maitland's 
friendship  hung  by  a  thread  and  then  chose  a  night  when 
Louise  was  being  played  and  he  could  come  late  and  leave 
early.  As  he  walked  upstairs,  the  shrill  laughter  of  the 
atelier  scene  warned  him  that  the  second  act  was  not  yet 
over,  and  he  crept  down  again  to  finish  his  cigar  in  the  hall. 
He  was  reading  the  list  of  box-holders  for  the  night,  when 
a  voice  behind  him  said: 

"Hul-/o/     When  did  you  get  back  from  America?" 
George  Oakleigh  was  standing  at  his  elbow,  unembar- 
rassed and  cordial,  waiting  to  shake  hands  with  him.     Eric 
was  conscious  only  of  an  immense,  sudden  appeal  to  his  own 
strength  of  heart  and  nerves ;  his  eyes  had  taken  in  George 
and  his  expression  at  a  glance;  Barbara  was  almost  cer- 
tainly with  him ;  and  with  another  glance,  not  hurried  enough 
to  seem  apprehensive,  he  saw  her  three  yards  away,  speak- 
ing to  Mrs.  Shelley.     He  had  taken  in  all  that  he  needed, 
before  George  was  ready  for  an  answer.     Unchanged;  tall 
and  slender;  in  a  silver  sheath  of  a  dress;  with  a  black 
head-band  and  a  bouquet  of  the  white  carnations  that  she 
always  brought  him  when  he  was  ill;  a  white  Indian  shawl, 
embroidered  with  green  and  red  parrakeets,  which  he  had 
seen  her  wear  a  dozen  times.     All  the  blood  in  his  body 
seemed  to  rush  to  his  eyes,  and  he  felt  himself  rocking. 
"I  got  back  a  fortnight  after  the  armistice." 
His  voice  was  detached  from  him,  but,  though  it  came 
from  an  unguessed  distance,  he  could  hear  that  it  was  steady. 
And  then  it  was  time  for  his  own  question : 
"You've  been  on  the  Riviera,  haven't  you?"     It  was  a 
triumph  to  meet  and  overcome  "Riviera"  without  a  stammer. 
•'Lucky  man !     We  had  the  wettest  winter  on  record  here.  .  . 
George,  I  hope  it's  not  too  late  to  offer  you  all  good  wishes. 


88  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

I  was  in  Japan,  when  I  heard  about  it ;  I  meant  to  write,  but 
I  was  suddenly  called  home  to  my  father  and  I  thought  I 
should  arrive  before  the  letter.  .  .  I  crossed  with  Raney, 
by  the  way.  .  .  Like  me,  I  see  you  only  come  for  the  third 
act  of  Louise." 

"Yes,  I'm  rather  tired  of  the  rest.  I  suppose  this  means 
that  the  second  act's  just  over." 

Two  sluggish  streams  were  trickling  out  of  the  stalls  and 
down  the  stairs,  converging  by  the  open  doors.  Dr.  Gais- 
f  ord,  heading  the  first,  looked  round,  nodded  to  George  and 
walked  over  to  a  sofa,  where  he  perched  like  a  fat,  blond 
idol;  it  was  a  perfect  opportunity  for  Eric  to  break  away 
and  join  him,  but  he  knew  that  this  first  meeting  with  Bar- 
bara must  be  faced  and  endured. 

She  brought  her  conversation  to  an  end  at  last  and  looked 
round  for  her  husband. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do?"  she  said  to  Eric. 

Even  through  a  glove  the  touch  of  her  hand  was  unmis- 
takable. If  he  did  not  meet  her  for  twenty  years,  he  could 
never  forget  it;  if  he  were  blind,  he  would  still  know  it 
from  any  other  woman's.  He  had  kissed  it  a  thousand 
times,  kissed  every  finger  of  it;  when  he  was  ill  and  she 
came  to  sit  with  him,  it  had  lain  coolly  over  his  eyes,  charm- 
ing him  to  sleep;  at  the  first  night  of  the  "Bomb-Shell", 
when  the  success  of  the  play  hung  in  the  balance,  he  had 
gripped  it  until  a  ring  cut  into  her  finger.  He  wondered  how 
much  she  remembered,  could  not  help  remembering.  .  .  . 

"How  do  you  do?" 

She  smiled  as  she  had  smiled  in  saying  good-bye  to  Mrs. 
Shelley,  with  a  regrouping  of  lips  and  cheeks.  It  was  a 
smile  in  which  her  eyes  played  no  part;  they  told  him 
nothing.  She  was  as  much  collected  as  he  knew  she  would 
be,  equal  to  every  social  demand  and  blankly  without  emo- 
tion. She  was  neither  tender  nor  hard,  neither  ashamed  nor 


EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS  89 

defiant ;  and,  though  she  too  must  have  rehearsed  this  meet- 
ing, her  eyes  looked  at  him  without  even  curiosity. 

He  was  already  trembling  in  reaction  before  she  passed 
out  of  sight.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  light  a  cigarette ; 
and  he  was  thankful  for  the  press  of  people  who  gave  him 
time  for  recovery  as  he  threaded  his  way  to  Gaisford's  sofa. 

"What  d'you  think  of  it?,"  he  asked,  carelessly  enough. 
"I've  only  just  come." 

"Oh,  it's  good.  Ansseau's  marvellous,  and  Edvina's  sing- 
ing very  well,  though  I'd  always  sooner  hear  her  in  Tosca 
than  in  anything.  She's  worked  that  up  wonderfully  since 
the  first  time  it  was  put  on.  I  haven't  seen  you  here  be- 
fore." 

"I  came  to  Bohevne  the  first  night.  Not  since.  .  .  But  I 
intend  to  be  here  as  often  as  I  can  spare  the  time." 

Dr.  Gaisford  offered  him  a  cigarette,  wondering  idly  why 
a  man  whose  trade  was  in  words  allowed  himself  to  say 
"intend"  when  he  could  have  used  "hope"  or  "expect"  with- 
out betraying  himself. 

"Well,  you're  wise.  .  .  if  you  feel  equal  to  it,"  he  said 
bluntly.  "Was  that  the  first  time  you'd  seen  her  since  her 
marriage?" 

"The  first  time  to  speak  to,"  said  Eric,  trying  to  control 
his  voice. 

"It  will  get  easier  by  degrees,"  said  the  doctor. 

"We'll  hope  so." 

"Bad  as  that,  old  man?" 

"It  was  hell !"  Eric  whispered.  "Either  she  never  had  a 
soul,  or  she's  lost  it." 

"Well,  my  dear  boy—" 

Eric  interrupted  him  with  a  mirthless  laugh. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  you're  right!,"  he  cried.  "But  I  wonder 
if  you  ever  appreciate  how  little  good  it  sometimes  does  to 
be  right.  .  .  I  must  go,  or  Lady  Maitland  will  be  fuming." 

He  jumped  up  and  hurried  through  the  hall  and  up  the 


90  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

stairs.  The  first  name  to  meet  his  eyes  was  "George  Oak- 
leigh,  Esq."  but  the  door  was  mercifully  shut  and  he  strode 
past  it  and  worked  his  way  through  an  argumentative  circle 
into  Lady  Maitland's  box.  She  was  sitting  with  her  hus- 
band and  Ivy,  and  he  was  almost  glad  to  be  distracted  by 
her  reproaches  for  arriving  so  late. 

"I'll  make  up  by  leaving  early,"  he  suggested.  "Age  can- 
not wither  the  infinite  tedium  of  the  fourth  act." 

"Oh,  you  must  stay  till  the  end.  Maurice  and  I  have  to 
go  on  to  the  Poynter's  musical-party;  I  was  depending  on 
you  to  take  Ivy  home  or  at  least  to  find  her  a  taxi." 

"Oh,  I'll  stay  for  that  with  pleasure,"  Eric  answered. 

The  drowsy  mutter  of  slip-shod  conversation  accelerated 
and  became  excitedly  clear  as  the  conductor  climbed  to  his 
place.  Eric  drew  his  glasses  lazily  from  their  case  and 
swept  the  boxes  on  either  side  of  him.  George  and  Bar- 
bara must  be  almost  at  right-angles;  she  could  see  him,  if 
he  sat  forward;  she  might  be  looking  at  him  then,  but  he 
dared  not  focus  the  glasses  on  her.  Some  one  in  the  stalls 
underneath  him  drawled:  "Hullo!  D'you  see  Babs  and 
George?  I  wonder  when  they  got  back?"  Then  the  lights 
were  lowered,  one  after  another. 

Eric  tried  to  lose  himselt  In  the  music.  When  that  failed, 
he  analyzed  the  orchestration  and  concentrated  his  attention 
on  the  conducting.  Barbara's  presence  made  itself  felt,  and 
he  knew  that,  for  all  preoccupation,  he  was  waiting  until 
the  stage  was  dark  enough  for  him  to  lean  forward  and  steal 
a  glance  at  her  between  Lady  Maitland's  square  grey  head 
and  Ivy's  dancing  black  curls.  When  he  turned  slowly  and 
looked  at  her  with  all  the  artificial  calm  that  he  could  put 
forth,  she  was  sitting  with  one  arm  on  the  sill  of  the  box, 
fingering  a  big  fan  and  watching  the  stage  with  rapt  enjoy- 
ment. He  leaned  back  and  closed  his  eyes. 

At  the  end  of  the  act  Sir  Maurice  and  Lady  Maitland 
hurried  away,  and  he  moved  into  the  empty  chair  at  the  front 


EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS  91 

of  the  box.  Barbara  was  evidently  holding  a  court ;  her  back 
was  turned  to  the  house,  and  he  could  see  a  phalanx  of  men 
breaking  rank,  shaking  hands,  exchanging  a  word  and 
squeezing  their  way  out  again.  George  was  supporting  her 
adequately,  easily,  as  though  it  were  natural  and  as  though 
he  were  her  husband  as  of  right,  never  seeing  that  he  was  a 
grotesque  usurper.  .  .  . 

"Are  you  going  to  smoke?,"  Ivy  asked  him,  as  he  laid  the 
glasses  down. 

"I  don't  think  so, — unless  you'd  like  to." 

"I  prefer  just  to  watch  the  people.  I  love  the  opera !  I 
love  the  music  and  the  acting,  I  love  the  house  and  the  people 
and  the  dresses  and  the  jewellery.  I've  been  here  every 
night  since  the  beginning." 

Eric  forced  himself  to  take  an  interest  in  her  though  her 
enthusiasm  jarred  on  him. 

"You're  living  with  Lady  Maitland,  aren't  you?,"  he 
asked. 

"Yes.  She  wanted  a  sort  of  secretary  to  arrange  her 
parties  and  answer  her  letters  and  deal  with  the  telephone 
.  .  .  I'm  quite  enjoying  it." 

"I  knew  you  would." 

"Did  you  suggest  it  to  her?" 

"Well,  I  had  a  hand  in  it.  I  was  so  shocked — I  don't 
mean  morally,  but  you  seemed  so  utterly  forlorn  and  miser- 
able that  night  when  I  came  to  see  you.  .  .  Are  you  happy 
now?" 

She  looked  away  without  answering  for  some  moments : 

"If  I  thought  about  it,  I  should  be  very  unhappy.  So  I 
try  not  to  think  about  it.  I  try  to  enjoy  myself  and  keep  so 
busy.  .  .  I  miss  the  freedom.  It's  great  fun  being  with 
Aunt  Connie;  she's  giving  me  an  awfully  good  time,  and 
I've  all  the  money  and  clothes  I  need ;  and  I'm  meeting  the 
most  wonderfully  interesting  people — You  know  what  her 
parties  are  like." 


92  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Then  what  earthly  excuse  have  you  for  being  unhappy?" 

"It  isn't  everything,"  she  sighed. 

There  was  no  taxi  to  be  found  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Covent  Garden,  and  after  a  fruitless  walk  down  the  Strand 
they  struck  across  the  Park.  At  the  corner  of  Bucking- 
ham Palace  an  officer  in  an  open  car,  with  a  girl  beside  him, 
leaning  on  his  shoulder,  passed  them  and  turned  with  a  jerk 
of  the  head  to  look  a  second  time  and  to  wave  his  hand. 

"Was  that  intended  for  me,  do  you  suppose?"  Eric 
asked.  "My  eyes  aren't  good  enough — " 

"It  was  Johnnie  Gaymer,"  she  answered. 

Though  her  voice  was  dispassionate  enough,  Eric  fancied 
that  he  had  felt  her  hand  dragging  against  his  arm. 

"I  haven't  seen  him  for  a  long  time,"  he  murmured. 

"Nor  have  I.  .  .  He  lives  in  Buckingham  Gate.  .  . 
Rather  a  nice  flat,"  she  explained  jerkily. 

Eric  was  vaguely  disquieted  at  seeing  Gaymer,  as  though 
not  to  see  him  were  to  bring  his  existence  to  an  end.  The 
moment's  glimpse  had  disturbed  Ivy  as  much  as  his  own 
meeting  with  Barbara.  She  spoke  hurriedly,  with  unconcern 
too  elaborate  to  be  convincing;  unconsciously  she  quickened 
her  pace.  And  Eric  would  have  wagered  a  year's  income 
that  Ivy's  unhappiness  was  linked  with  Gaymer's  treatment 
of  her. 

"I  wonder  whether  we  shall  get  a  taxi  at  Victoria,"  she 
murmured  as  though  she  knew  and  wanted  to  interrupt  his 
thoughts. 

"I  certainly  don't  want  to  walk  home  from  Eaton  Place." 

It  was  distasteful  to  suspect  a  man,  when  there  was  no 
basis  for  suspicion,  but  Eric  felt  that  Gaymer  was  not  to  be 
trusted.  That  conceded,  it  was  plausible  to  imagine  that  Ivy 
had  fallen  in  love  with  him  and  that  he  had  tried  to  exploit 
her  devotion  for  his  own  amusement.  Either  he  had  mis- 
judged the  character  of  his  quarry  or  else  he  was  waiting  for 
her  to  come  to  her  senses.  Eric  remembered  his  glimpse  of 


EVERYBODY'S  BUSINESS  93 

the  girl  in  the  car,  lolling  back  with  her  head  on  Gaymer's 
shoulder:  it  was  a  reasonable  guess  that  Ivy  had  drifted 
without  seeing  where  he  was  leading  her  and  had  pulled 
herself  up  in  time  to  administer  an  unexpected  rebuff.  .  .  . 

Eric  was  startled  out  of  his  reverie  when  she  drew  her  arm 
out  of  his  and  waved  to  a  taxi. 

"Don't  come  any  farther  with  me !,"  she  begged.  "It  was 
simply  sweet  of  you  to  toil  right  out  of  your  way  like  this." 

"But  I'll  drop  you  in  Eaton  Place  and  take  the  taxi  on." 
It  was  the  most  obvious  and  comfortable  arrangement  for 
both.  As  she  hesitated  to  accept  it,  Eric  became  suddenly 
suspicious  that  she  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him  and  to  be 
alone.  The  sight  of  Gaymer  with  another  woman  had  hurt 
her  until  she  had  to  cry — and  to  cry  where  no  one  would  see 
her.  As  she  stood  with  set  face  and  eyes  averted,  against 
the  immense  gloomy  background  of  the  palace,  with  the  wind 
blowing  through  her  hair  and  snatching  at  her  cloak,  she 
seemed  even  more  fragile  and  forlorn  than  on  the  night  when 
she  had  begged  him  to  come  home  with  her  from  the 
theatre. 

"Won't  you  let  me  stay  with  you  for  another  two  min- 
utes ?,"  he  begged  her  gently.  "I  promised  Lady  Maitland  to 
see  you  home." 

"She  only  asked  you  to  find  me  a  taxi." 

"But  you're  condemning  me  to  walk  the  whole  way  from 
here  to  Ryder  Street !"  he  protested. 

"Won't  you  find  a  taxi  at  Victoria  ?  Or  you  can  have  this 
one,  and  I'll  walk;  I'm  nearly  home  now." 

To  press  his  company  on  her  any  further  would  have  been 
persecution. 

"You  have  your  latch-key?,"  he  asked.  "And  d'you  want 
any  money?" 

"I've  plenty,  thanks.     Good-night." 

He  slammed  the  door  to  and  turned  back  towards  the 
Park.  As  he  paused  to  light  a  cigarette,  the  noise  of  the 


94  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

taxi  grew  fainter  and  died  almost  away;  then  it  seemed  to 
become  unaccountably  clearer,  and  he  looked  up  with  sur- 
prise. The  taxi  was  returning,  and,  though  he  could  not  see 
any  one  inside,  the  flag  was  down,  and  he  recognized  the 
driver.  In  another  moment  it  had  passed  him  and  swept 
away  to  the  right  down  Buckingham  Gate.  Eric  started  in 
pursuit.  If  his  suspicions  were  anything  but  the  fruit  of  a 
disordered  imagination,  Ivy  Maitland  was  preparing  to  fight 
the  unknown  woman  for  possession  of  Gaymer. 

His  pace  slackened,  as  he  tried  to  think  how  he  should 
explain  or  justify  himself  to  Gaymer.  He  came  to  a  stand- 
still, as  he  remembered  that  he  did  not  know  Gaymer's 
address. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE    PRICE  OF   SYMPATHY 

"Novelty  is  to  love  like  bloom  to  fruit;  it  gives  a  lustre,  which 
is  easily  effaced,  but  never  returns." 

BE  LA  ROCHEFOUCAULD  :    "MAXIMS." 

HALF-PAST  twelve  was  striking,  as  Eric  entered  his  flat. 
A  pile  of  letters  awaited  him,  but  he  went  into  his  bedroom- 
without  looking  at  them  and  began  to  undress.  His  un- 
expected walk  had  tired  him,  and  he  wanted  to  go  to  sleep 
before  his  brain  woke  up  to  puzzle  itself  over  Ivy  Maitland 
or  to  reconstruct  his  meeting  with  Barbara  and  imagine  ways 
in  which  he  could  have  carried  it  off  with  greater  dignity  or 
triumph.  Until  twenty  minutes  ago  he  fancied  that  he 
understood  the  few  elements  of  Ivy's  simple  character ;  but, 
if  she  were  forcing  her  way  into  Gaymer's  flat  to  evict 
another  woman,  she  had  more  passion  and  determination  than 
her  record  of  short-lived  impulses  warranted  his  expect- 
ing. .  .  . 

The  telephone-bell  by  his  bed  mercilessly  violated  the  si- 
lence of  the  room ;  and  he  spun  around  to  face  it,  dropping 
his  watch.  No  one  but  Barbara  had  ever  telephoned  to  him 
at  such  an  hour ;  at  such  an  hour  she  had  hardly  missed  one 
night  in  fifteen  months,  when  they  were  both  in  London; 
when  last  she  telephoned  to  him  at  such  an  hour,  two  and  a 
half  years  before,  he  had  returned  home  after  saying  good- 
bye to  her;  next  day  he  was  leaving  for  America;  and  he 
had  let  the  bell  ring  on  unanswered,  muffling  it  with  his 
handkerchief,  when  he  could  bear  the  noise  no  longer  and 
trying  to  face  his  new  conception  of  Barbara  as  a  woman  for 

95 


96  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

whom  honour  and  love  had  no  meaning.  For  two  and  a  half 
years  he  had  wondered  what  would  have  happened  if  he  had 
listened  to  her  pleading.  .  .  He  took  a  step  towards  the  bed 
and  then  retraced  it. 

As  he  picked  up  his  watch  and  continued  to  wind  it,  the 
bell  rang  again.  This  time  he  advanced  to  the  telephone 
unhesitatingly,  but  with  the  dread  of  a  man  compelled  to 
draw  back  the  sheet  from  a  corpse's  face. 

"Hullo?" 

"Is  that  Mr.  Lane?  It's  Lady  Maitland  speaking.  I 
hope  you  weren't  asleep?" 

He  sat  heavily  on  the  bed,  limp  for  the  moment  with  re- 
lief. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  undressed  yet,  thanks." 

"I  rang  you  up  to  find  out  what  had  happened  to  Ivy. 
She's  not  come  in  yet;  and  she's  such  a  little  harum- 
scarum.  .  .  Did  you  bring  her  home  ?" 

Eric  wanted  to  think  over  the  answer  and  knew  that  he 
had  no  time. 

"I  put  her  into  a  taxi,"  he  said  promptly. 

"Oh.  .  .  Then  she  ought  to  be  home  by  now.  .  .  She 
didn't  say  she  was  going  on  to  a  party,  did  she  ?" 

"No.  .  .  I  hope  there's  nothing  wrong,  Lady  Maitland. 
If  /  can  do  anything.  .  .  Search-parties  or  anything  of  that 
kind?" 

"Oh  no!  She  must  be  in  soon.  I  thought  I'd  just  find 
out.  .  .  Good-night!" 

Eric  lighted  a  cigarette  and  threw  himself,  half-undressed, 
on  the  bed.  He  could  have  done  no  good  by  handing  on  in- 
substantial suspicions.  .  .  Half-an-hour  later  he  went  to 
bed  with  an  unresolved  riddle  on  his  mind  and  found  himself, 
in  his  dreams,  counselling  Ivy  or  tracking  Gaymer.  The 
riddle  kept  him  company  at  breakfast,  and,  as  he  came  to  the 
end  of  his  letters,  he  was  wondering  whether  to  call  for  an 
explanation,  when  Ivy  herself  was  announced. 


THE  PRICE  OF  SYMPATHY  97 

She  shook  hands  and  looked  round  the  room  with  a  show 
of  interest,  as  his  secretary  collected  her  papers  and  with- 
drew. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  disturbing  you  ?,"  she  asked. 

"I  think  I  was  expecting  you.     Won't  you  sit  down?" 

She  arranged  herself  with  her  back  to  the  light,  a  moment 
too  late  to  keep  Eric  from  seeing  that  her  face  was  colourless 
but  for  blue-grey  shadows  under  her  eyes;  a  black  hat  and 
black  dress  with  transparent  sleeves  from  shoulder  to  wrist 
accentuated  her  pallor. 

"I  won't  keep  you  a  minute;  it's  about  last  night,"  she 
began  breathlessly.  "You  must  have  thought  it  very  funny 
of  me  to  ask  you  not  to  see  me  home,  making  you  walk  home 
yourself — " 

"It  was  fair  to  assume  that  you  weren't  going  straight 
home,"  Eric  laughed. 

Ivy's  strangulated  voice  and  expression  of  tragedy 
warned  him  not  to  laugh  again. 

"I — went  out  to  supper,"  she  explained.  "Aunt  Connie 
told  me  she  rang  you  up  to  know  what  had  happened  to  me. 
So,  if  she  says  anything  about  it — " 

She  stopped  in  embarrassment  at  Eric's  look  of  surprise. 

"I  suspect  you  of  trying  to  involve  me  in  a  conspiracy, 
Miss  Maitland,"  he  said. 

"Conspiracy?  .  .  .  Aunt  Connie  said  that  you  were 
anxious  and  that  you'd  kindly  offered  to  send  out  search- 
parties  or  something — " 

"So  you  came  in  person  to  set  my  mind  at  rest  instead  of 
writing  or  telephoning!  Your  aunt  was  very  anxious,  I 
thought." 

"I'm  afraid  she  was.  You  see,  I  hadn't  told  her  before- 
hand." 

Ivy  tried  to  look  him  frankly  in  the  face,  then  lowered  her 
eyes  and  pretended  to  inspect  the  furniture  and  pictures. 
Eric  turned  away  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 


98  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Did  you  know  anything  about  it,  yourself,  beforehand?" 
He  gave  her  time  to  decide  whether  it  was  worth  while  to 
speak  the  truth.  "I  don't  say  I  will  be  your  accomplice, 
but,  if  you  want  me  to  be,  you  must  tell  me  everything." 

"My  accomplice  in  what?" 

Eric  turned  with  a  smile  and  offered  her  a  cigarette : 

"To  put  it  quite  brutally,  in  concealing  from  your  aunt 
what  happened  last  night." 

"And  what  did  happen?,"  she  demanded. 

Eric  found  her  effort  to  put  him  out  of  countenance  by 
attempted  haughtiness  of  tone  pathetically  unsuccessful. 

"You  went  to  Gaymer's  flat  in  Buckingham  Gate.  I  don't 
say  there  wasn't  any  supper;  I  don't  even  say  there  wasn't 
a  party,  if  three  constitute  a  party.  It  was  informal,  how- 
ever, and  as  much  of  a  surprise  to  the  host  as  to  his  guests." 

Ivy  jumped  up  indignantly  and  subsided  slowly  in  defeat. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean!,"  she  cried  with  a  last 
rally. 

"Am  I  right  so  far?" 

"How  did  you  find  out?,"  she  asked  limply. 

"Intuition,  if  you  like.  You  went  there  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment,  because  you'd  seen  him  driving  home  with 
another  woman.  You  went  there  to  make  a  scene  with  the 
other  woman." 

"No,  I  wanted  to  talk  to  him  about  something." 

"Doesn't  it  come  to  the  same  thing?" 

"I  never  even  saw  her.     I  don't  know  who  she  was." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Eric  changed  his  chair  so  that 
he  should  not  seem  to  be  watching  her  face. 

"Well,  so  far  my  intuition  has  been  fairly  good,"  he  said. 
"Isn't  it  your  turn  now?"  There  was  no  answer.  "I'm 
hardly  adding  anything,  if  I  say  that  you're  in  love  with 
Gaymer  and  jealous  of  the  other  woman." 

"She'd  no  right  to  be  there !" 


THE  PRICE  OF  SYMPATHY  99 

"Oh,  come!  I'm  afraid  neither  Gaymer  nor  any  other 
man  would  allow  you  to  dictate  who  may  go  to  his  flat." 

"But  he's  engaged  to  me!" 

Her  left  hand  was  bare  and  carried  no  ring ;  Eric  seemed 
to  remember  her  telling  him  overnight  that  she  had  not  seen 
Gaymer  for  some  time;  and,  when  he  went  into  her  rooms 
off  the  Adelphi,  she  had  confessed  to  at  least  a  disagree- 
ment. The  engagement  seemed  unstable. 

"Ah,  that  I  didn't  know,  of  course,"  he  said. 

There  was  another  pause,  and  the  girl  turned  her  head 
quickly  so  that  even  her  profile  was  hidden  from  him.  Eric 
saw  the  flash  of  a  handkerchief  and  heard  a  sob  half-choked 
down.  Throwing  away  his  cigarette,  he  seated  himself  on 
the  arm  of  the  chair  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
Nearly  three  years  ago  Barbara  had  swept  into  that  room 
like  a  whirlwind  and  collapsed  as  suddenly.  Since  then  he 
ought  to  have  learned  the  price  of  sympathy.  .  .  . 

"Wouldn't  it  help  you  to  tell  me  all  about  it?,"  he  asked 
her  gently. 

Ivy  dabbed  at  her  eyes  and  felt  for  his  hand.  Then  she 
turned  and  pressed  herself  against  him  until  he  could  feel  the 
fluttering  of  her  heart. 

"That's  why  I  told  you  I  was  desperate,"  she  gulped,  bury- 
ing a  tear-stained  face  of  misery  on  his  shoulder.  "That's 
why  I  told  you  at  the  opera  that  I  couldn't  allow  myself  to 
think  of  things.  .  .  We  met  on  the  way  back  from  America ; 
we  liked  each  other,  we  were  always  meeting.  When  life  at 
home  became  more  than  I  could  stand,  he  helped  me.  .  . 
But  I  told  you  all  about  that.  .  .  It  was  glorious  at  first, 
I'd  never  been  in  love,  I  felt  I'd  never  been  happy  before. 
I  used  to  dine  with  him  almost  every  night  and  go  on  to  a 
dance.  He's  a  beautiful  dancer,  and  I  adore  dancing.  I 
seemed  to  belong  to  him.  .  .  When  we  didn't  do  that,  we 
used  to  go  to  a  theatre,  or  he'd  just  come  and  talk  to  me  in 
my  rooms,  or  I'd  go  and  talk  to  him — " 


IOO 

"Didn't  you  feel  that  was  rather  a  risk  ?" 

Either  the  girl  did  not  hear  him  or  she  deliberately  ignored 
the  interruption. 

"I  didn't  think  any  one  could  be  so  happy,"  she  went  on. 
"I  remember  thinking  how  wrong  you  were.  .  .  Some  days 
weren't  as  perfect  as  others,  of  course.  I  suppose  I'm  very 
jealous,  but  I  loved  him  so  much  that  I  simply  hated  to  see 
him  speak  to  another  woman ;  /  never  wanted  to  speak  to 
another  man,  so  it  wasn't  fair.  .  .  We'd  had  a  row  that 
night  when  I  met  you  after  the  theatre.  A  woman — she  was 
rude  to  me,  deliberately;  he  said  he'd  known  her  for  years, 
but  that  didn't  make  any  difference  or  give  her  the  right.  .  . 
I  never  said  anything  to  her,  but  I  could  see  she  hated  me ; 
and  he  just  laughed  at  us  both  and  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  I 
refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him  for  ten  days  after 
that.  Then  he  apologized  and  said  the  woman  had  onoe 
been  in  love  with  him  and  he  didn't  want  a  scene  in  public.  .  . 
Then  we  became  engaged." 

She  threw  out  the  words  so  abruptly  that  Eric  was  con- 
scious of  disproportion,  even  of  omission. 

"What  happened?,"  he  asked. 

"He  took  me  out  to  dinner,  and  we  went  on  to  a  dance  at 
the  Burlington  Rooms.  Then  we  went  to  his  flat  for  supper. 
I  didn't  want  to  go  at  first,  because  it  was  after  two,  but  he 
begged  so  hard  and  said  he  was  leaving  London  next  day. 
We  became  engaged  then." 

Eric  was  still  conscious  of  an  omission. 

"It  was  never  announced,  was  it?,"  he  asked. 

"No.  He  didn't  want  us  to  marry  until  he  knew  whether 
he  was  going  to  stay  on  in  the  army.  He  wants  to  be  de- 
mobilized as  soon  as  possible ;  he  has  friends  in  the  City — " 

"But  that's  no  reason  why  the  engagement  shouldn't  be 
announced,"  Eric  persisted. 

"He  didn't  want  it.  He  made  me  promise  to  keep  it  a 
secret.  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you,  but  last  night — " 


THE  PRICE  OF  SYMPATHY          101 

She  broke  off  and  began  to  cry  again. 

"Well,  what  happened  then?"  he  asked  her  after  a  pause. 

"After  that —  My  work  in  his  department  was  over ;  and, 
when  Aunt  Connie  asked  me  to  come  and  stay  with  her,  I 
went.  Johnnie  didn't  like  my  going,  he  said  he'd  never  see 
anything  of  me — " 

"But  I  thought  he  was  going  away  himself?" 

"No,  he  didn't  go — after  all.  At  least,  not  then.  I  saw 
him  whenever  we  could  arrange  it,  he  used  to  come  and 
dine.  .  .  He  complained  that  he  never  had  me  to  himself ; 
but  I  told  him  that,  as  soon  as  the  engagement  was  an- 
nounced, he  could  have  me  as  much  to  himself  as  he  liked. 
When  my  sisters  were  engaged,  every  one  ran  away  as  if 
they'd  got  plague.  .  .  I  did  dine  with  him  once  or  twice, 
but  in  some  ways  Aunt  Connie's  as  bad  as  mother;  she  al- 
ways comes  into  my  room  at  night  to  see  I'm  home  and 
she'd  have  had  a  fit,  if  she'd  known  that  I  was  dining  alone 
with  Johnnie.  We  used  to  invent  people — 'Captain  Rich- 
ards' and  'Mrs.  Bosanquet' ;  whenever  Aunt  Connie  wanted 
to  know  who'd  been  there,  I  used  to  say  'Captain  Richards 
and  Mrs.  Bosanquet'." 

She  laughed  feebly  at  her  strategem,  but  Eric  was  dis- 
quieted. Innocence  or  stupidity  might  excuse  her  for  run- 
ning risks ;  but  there  must  be  a  blind  spot  in  her  conscience, 
if  she  could  tell  a  lie  so  light-heartedly  and  then  talk  about  it 

"And  what  happened  then?,"  he  asked,  deferring  censure 
for  fear  of  drying  the  stream  of  her  confidence. 

"Well,  then  the  opera  started,  and  I  hardly  saw  him  at  all. 
Aunt  Connie  was  there  every  night,  and  I  felt  she  had  first 
call  on  me.  Besides,  I  liked  going;  and  there  was  always 
room  in  the  box,  if  he'd  wanted  to  come.  He  said  he  didn't 
care  to  be  with  me  when  there  was  a  crowd  of  other 
people.  .  .  Then  he  did  go  away.  That  was  weeks  ago,  and 
I  didn't  see  him  again  till  last  night." 

"Did  he  write?" 


102  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Ivy  turned  with  anguished  protest  in  her  eyes,  as  though 
he  had  asked  the  question  for  the  pleasure  of  hurting  her : 

"No." 

"And  what  happened  last  night?" 

As  she  hesitated,  he  could  see  her  hardening;  and  the 
grip  on  his  hand  tightened. 

"I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing,"  she  whispered.  "I 
couldn't  see.  .  .  But  I  felt  I  had  to  go.  .  .  He  opened  the 
door,  and  I  asked  him.  .  .  Her  coat  was  on  a  chair.  I 
shan't  tell  you  what  we  said.  .  .  But  I  did  tell  him  he  was 
a  beast  to  behave  like  that,  when  he  was  engaged  to  me,  a 
beast  not  to  write,  a  beast  to  make  me  miserable !" 

Her  voice  had  risen,  she  had  drooped  away  from  him  and 
was  crying  without  concealment.  Eric  lifted  her  hand  to  his 
lips  and  put  an  arm  around  her  shoulders,  drawing  her  to 
him  until  her  cheek  lay  against  his  breast. 

"You  must  steady  yourself,  Ivy !  I  warn  you  that,  when 
any  one  cries,  I'm  always  liable  to  join  in !" 

"You  ?  I  don't  mind  what  you  do !  You've  been  ripping 
to  me — right  from  the  first  time  we  met.  .  .  I  hate  men! 
I'd  never  tell  any  man  what  I've  told  you.  I  don't  know 
why  you  let  me;  you've  better  things  to  do,  I  should  have 
thought." 

"Well,  perhaps  I  hope  that  I  may  be  useful.  What  hap- 
pened then?" 

Ivy  dabbed  jerkily  at  her  eyes  and  tried  to  steady  her 
voice. 

"He  said  that,  if  I  thought  so  badly  of  him,  we'd  better 
end  the  engagement,"  she  went  on. 

"There  I  agree  with  him." 

"I  said  I  only  asked  him  to  behave  properly  to  me.  He 
said  the  whole  thing  was  a  mistake  and,  if  I  wouldn't  end 
it,  he  would.  I  said  I  wouldn't  let  him !" 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  began  smoothing  the  front  of  her 
dress  as  though  she  had  nothing  to  add.  Eric  got  off  the 


103 

arm  of  her  chair  and  stood  facing  her  with  his  shoulders 
against  the  mantelpiece. 

"Don't  think  me  prejudiced,"  he  began,  "if  I  admit  that  I 
don't  greatly  care  for  Gaymer,  but  believe  me  when  I  tell 
you  that  you're  very  well  out  of  it — " 

"But  I'm  not !,"  she  interrupted.  "I  won't  let  him  break 
it  off!" 

"I  imagine  you're  not  prepared  to  share  him,"  Eric  sug- 
gested drily. 

"But  I  love  him  more  than  any  one  in  the  world !" 

"That's  not  enough  by  itself." 

She  fingered  her  handkerchief  for  a  moment  and  then 
broke  out  explosively: 

"I  won't  let  him  go !" 

"How  can  you  keep  him?"  Eric  asked.  "Will  you 
threaten  him  with  an  action  for  breach  of  promise?" 

"I'll  do  anything!" 

He  shook  his  head  and  waited  for  her  to  calm  herself. 

"In  the  first  place  you  couldn't  prove  that  there'd  ever 
been  a  promise  to  marry,"  he  began.  "In  the  next  place,  as 
it's  never  been  announced,  you  couldn't  prove  damage. 
He's  not  kept  you  from  marrying  any  one  else ;  and  a  jury 
wouldn't  give  a  farthing  for  your  heart  or  feelings.  And 
it's  fantastic  to  think  that  you  can  make  a  man  marry  you 
by  threatening  an  action  if  he  doesn't.  What  kind  of  mar- 
ried life  do  you  look  forward  to  after  that?  Of  course,  I 
don't  know  whether  he  was  serious  last  night  or  whether 
you'd  both  lost  your  tempers ;  but,  if  he  meant  it,  you  must 
regard  the  thing  as  being  over." 

Pouting  and  rebellious,  Ivy  stared  at  her  shoes  and  bit  at 
the  border  of  a  crumpled  handkerchief : 

"I  won't!" 

"My  dear,  you  must!  However  much  you  love  him,  he's 
not  worth  having  unless  he  loves  you.  What  can  you  do  to 
make  him?" 


io4  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"I'll  publish  the  engagement!" 

"And  if  he  contradicts  it?" 

"He  wouldn't!  He  couldn't!  He  couldn't  be  such  a 
brute!"  She  was  startled  by  her  own  vehemence  and  re- 
peated in  a  whisper  more  poignant  than  the  cry:  "Oh,  he 
couldn't!" 

Eric  looked  at  her  and  walked  away  to  the  window.  Pil- 
lowing his  chin  on  his  arms,  he  stared  into  the  lifeless  street 
below.  Somewhere  in  the  silent  flat  a  clock  struck  twelve; 
a  second  and  a  third  joined  in  with  softly  discordant  chimes, 
and  he  realized  that  he  had  been  sprawling  there  in  mental 
catalepsy  for  ten  minutes.  .  .  . 

"From  your  account — you've  told  me  everything,  I  take 
it — ?"  he  asked  uncertainly. 

"Everything!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  back  to  the  room, 
avoiding  her  eyes  because  he  knew  that  she  was  lying. 
There  was  no  proof,  but  her  desperate  intensity  convinced 
him,  and  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  guessed  before. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?,"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  mean  to  talk  to  you  about  this. 
I  only  wanted  you  not  to  give  me  away  to  Aunt  Connie." 
She  stood  up  and  looked  round  the  room  for  a  mirror.  "Do 
I  look  very  awful?  I  cried  myself  sick  last  night." 

"Come  into  the  next  room  and  tidy  up,"  he  suggested. 

"I  could  drown  myself !,"  she  cried. 

He  gave  her  a  clean  handkerchief  and  watched  her  thought- 
fully as  she  bathed  and  dried  her  eyes.  When  she  took  off 
her  hat  and  smoothed  her  short  dark  hair,  she  would  have 
passed  anywhere  as  a  slim  boy  of  fifteen  masquerading  in  a 
woman's  black  dress.  As  he  watched  her,  his  mind  went 
back  to  their  first  conversation  in  New  York,  and  he  felt 
that  he  had  foreseen  everything  as  well  as  if  she  carried  her 
future  branded  on  her  forehead.  It  was  a  tragedy  from 
which  he  could  see  no  escape,  perfect  material  for  the  third 


THE  PRICE  OF  SYMPATHY          105 

act  of  a  play;  and  the  psychology  and  emotion  hao.  been 
presented  to  him  without  any  strain  on  his  imagination.  .  . 
But  artistic  detachment  was  an  indecency  when  a  mere  child 
was  being  ruined  and  heartbroken  for  the  passing  pleasure  of 
a  man  like  Gaymer.  She  was  spiritually  ruined  whether 
Gaymer  married  her  or  not.  .  .  . 

"You  mustn't  talk  like  that,"  he  said  gently.  "I'm  going 
to  think  whether  I  can  suggest  anything.  May  I  take  you 
home?  A  walk  will  do  me  good." 

They  left  Ryder  Street  and  crossed  the  Park  without  ex- 
changing six  words.  Here  and  there  the  passers-by  paused 
and  looked  back  to  marvel  at  their  preoccupation,  for  both 
walked  with  knitted  brows  and  bent  heads,  Ivy  to  hide  her 
red  eyes,  and  Eric  to  concentrate  his  thoughts  with  n6  other 
distraction  than  brown  gravel  and  grey  flag-stones.  They 
said  good-bye  in  Eaton  Place  after  arranging  to  meet  at  the 
opera. 

Eric  turned  back  towards  Grosvenor  Place  and  walked  to 
the  Thespian  Club.  As  he  entered  the  dining-room,  a  hand 
was  laid  on  his  arm.  Carstairs  was  lunching  with  Degan- 
way,  and  they  greeted  him  with  an  air  of  grievance. 

"You've  just  cut  us  once.  Don't  make  a  habit  of  it," 
said  Deganway. 

"I'm  sorry !  May  I  join  you  ?  And  tell  me  where  I  cut 
you." 

"It  was  in  the  Park,"  said  Deganway.  "We  were  coming 
here  from  the  Foreign  Office,  and  you  were  walking  with  a 
young  and  lovely  sylph.  It  was  quite  deliberate.  I  think  I 
shall  have  to  tell  John  Gaymer  about  it;  on  my  honour  I 
shall." 

Eric  reached  for  the  menu  and  began  to  write  his  bill. 
Deganway  was  the  most  intolerable  gossip  in  London,  but 
a  gossip  was  sometimes  useful. 

"How  does  he  come  into  it  ?,"  he  asked  at  length. 

"Oh,  those  two!     My  dear,  she's  Johnnie's  latest  passion 


106  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

...  At  least  I  haven't  heard  of  any  one  later.  You'd 
better  watch  out,  if  he  finds  you  poaching.  You  are  be- 
hindhand." 

"We  can't  compete  with  you,  Gerry,"  said  Carstairs. 

Eric  made  no  comment,  but  he  ordered  a  light  luncheon 
and  ate  it  as  quickly  as  it  could  be  served.  He  had  offered 
to  take  Ivy  home  because  he  knew  that  he  could  do  no  work 
while  he  was  thinking  of  her ;  and  it  was  useless  to  go  back 
to  his  rooms  or  to  fancy  that  he  could  compose  his  mind 
until  he  had  done  something  for  her  or  satisfied  himself  that 
nothing  could  be  done.  He  wondered  whether  she  knew 
that  he  had  guessed.  .  .  The  slim,  black  figure  with  the 
short,  boyish  hair  haunted  him ;  he  saw  her  in  every  corner 
of  the  dining-room  and  heard  her  cry  of  despair  above  the 
clatter  of  plates  and  the  babble  of  voices.  Once  he  tried  to 
tell  himself  that  it  was  not  his  business.  .  .  But  she  had 
talked  to  him  because  there  was  no  one  else.  .  .  . 

Before  he  could  do  anything,  he  had  to  hear  Gaymer's 
version.  That  had  been  obvious  from  the  first,  but  he  had 
seen  only  the  precipitous  difficulties  of  a  meeting  until  a 
chance  hint  from  Deganway  shewed  him  how  to  overcome 
them.  As  soon  as  he  had  finished  his  meal,  he  telephoned 
to  find  out  whether  Gaymer  was  at  home.  A  voice  answered 
that  he  was  not  expected  until  after  six,  and  Eric  strode 
into  the  Park  to  be  by  himself  and  to  rehearse  the  interview. 

There  was  no  one  who  could  undertake  it  for  him.  He 
passed  General  Maitland,  the  judge  and  Ivy's  two  brothers 
in  rapid  review,  but  they  were  the  last  people  who  must  ever 
know.  Then,  waiving  preliminaries,  he  wondered  what  he 
was  going  to  say  to  Gaymer.  Plain  speaking  was  more  salu- 
tary than  effective.  Gaymer  might  deny  everything,  he 
might  laugh ;  this  was  probably  not  the  first  time  that  he  had 
got  himself  into  an  ambiguous  position,  and  he  had  probably 
received  his  share  of  plain  speaking.  Moreover,  invective 
did  not  help  Ivy.  Eric  tried  to  make  up  his  mind  whether 


107 

he  wanted,  whether  he  would  help,  whether  he  would  even 
allow  her  to  marry  such  a  man.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  one  who  could  advise  him.  Amy  Loring 
was  a  sensible,  sympathetic  woman,  but,  where  sex  morals 
were  in  question,  she  rather  boasted  of  her  old-fashioned  in- 
tolerance. To  tell  her  would  be  to  alienate  her  forever  from 
some  one  to  whom  she  was  at  present  mildly  attached. 
Sonia  O'Rane  had  crammed  a  life-time  of  experience  into 
thirty  years  and  would  probably  respect  a  girl  the  more 
flagrantly  she  overthrew  the  conventional  canons  of  morality. 
But  it  was  never  safe  to  entrust  Sonia  with  a  secret.  The 
longer  he  thought  over  it,  the  more  clearly  Eric  saw  that  the 
secret  could  be  shared  with  no  one. 

He  walked  slowly  into  the  Green  Park  and  timed  his  ar- 
rival at  Buckingham  Gate  for  half -past  six.  Gaymer  had 
come  home  a  moment  before  him  and  was  still  standing  in  the 
hall  with  his  cap  on,  opening  letters.  For  an  instant  he  be- 
trayed surprise  at  receiving  a  call  from  a  man  whom  he 
knew  but  slightly  and  had  never  invited  to  his  flat,  but  the 
surprise  was  banished  without  an  effort. 

"Hullo!  How  are  you?,"  he  jerked  out.  "Just  let  me 
finish  these,  will  you?" 

"I  wanted  to  have  a  word  with  you,  if  you  could  spare 
time,"  said  Eric. 

"Come  along."  Gaymer  crossed  the  hall  slowly,  reading 
the  last  of  his  letters,  and  threw  open  the  door  of  a  small 
sitting-room  decorated  with  Vogue  plates  and  furnished  with 
a  divan,  two  arm-chairs  and  a  low  Moorish  table.  "What'll 
you  have  to  drink?,"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,  thanks.  .  .  I'd  better  explain  why  I'm  here. 
I  was  at  the  opera  last  night,  and  Lady  Maitland  asked  me  to 
see  Ivy  home.  I  put  her  into  a  taxi  just  by  the  Royal 
Stables,  but,  when  I  got  home,  Lady  Maitland  telephoned  to 
say  that  she  wasn't  in  yet ;  did  I  know  what  had  happened 


io8  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

to  her  ?  This  morning  Ivy  called  on  me,  and  I  gathered  that, 
after  leaving  me,  she'd  come  here." 

Gaymer  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  whiskey  to  be  brought 
in. 

"So  it  was  you  she  was  walking  with?"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  see." 

"Yes.  .  .  As  the  result  of  coming  here,  she's  rather  up- 
set ;  and  I  wanted  to  straighten  things  out,  if  I  could." 

Gaymer  filled  his  tumbler  and  looked  at  Eric  over  the  top, 
slightly  raising  his  eyebrows. 

"Well,  drive  ahead,"  he  recommended. 

"You  and  she  are  engaged,  aren't  you?" 

"Did  she  tell  you  that?" 

"I  should  like  to  hear  if  that  is  so." 

Gaymer  emptied  half  the  tumbler  and  set  it  down  behind 
him  on  the  mantelpiece. 

'Would  you?,"  he  asked  with  a  smile.  "I  rather  feel 
that's  my  business." 

"Not  entirely.  She's  a  friend  of  mine.  .  .  You  and  she 
were  being  discussed  at  lunch  to-day." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  Thespian.  Are  you  engaged  to  her?,"  Eric  per- 
sisted. 

In  the  short  pause  which  followed  both  men  seemed  to  re- 
solve no  longer  to  waste  time  on  appearances  and  the  circum- 
locution of  civility. 

"What  the  devil's  that  to  you?,"  Gaymer  demanded. 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  her?,"  asked  Eric. 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  her  yourself?" 

"I'd  sooner  marry  her  myself  than  see  her  married  to 
you,"  said  Eric  and  repented  of  the  words  almost  before 
they  were  spoken.  In  themselves  they  were  harmless,  but 
he  did  not  want  Gaymer  to  see  that  his  cool  insolence  and 
jerky  monosyllables  were  wearing  down  his  own  patience. 


THE  PRICE  OF  SYMPATHY          109 

"Well,  /  won't  stop  you,  if  you  think  you'll  have  any 
success." 

"That's  not  the  point.  She  says  you  promised  to  marry 
her,  and  I  want  to  know  if  you're  going  to  keep  your 
promise." 

"I  see.  Well,  7  want  to  know  just  where  you  think  you 
come  in." 

"She's  a  friend  of  mine,"  Eric  repeated. 

"Bully  for  her!  But  I'm  afraid  I  don't  hold  myself  re- 
sponsible to  any  friend  of  hers  who  chooses  to  come  here 
and  ask  impertinent  questions." 

"Naturally.  But  I  think  I  may  say  she's  asked  my 
advice.  Certainly  I've  given  her  advice,  and  she  seems  to  be 
guided  by  it  to  some  extent." 

"Bully  for  her  again!" 

"She  was  talking  of  making  the  engagement  public." 

Gaymer  was  only  impressed  to  the  extent  of  hesitating 
for  an  instant;  then  he  shewed  himself  more  assured  than 
ever: 

"And,  if  your  advice  to  her  is  worth  a  damn,  you  told  her 
not  to  do  that !" 

"You  don't  want  to  marry  her,  then?" 

Gaymer  first  yawned  and  then  frowned  with  a  sudden 
irritability  that  suggested  more  that  he  wanted  to  end  the  in- 
terview than  that  he  had  lost  his  temper. 

"Whether  I  want  to  or  not  is  beside  the  point!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I've  no  money  to  marry  on.  She  knows  that. 
I  don't  know  from  one  day  to  another  whether  I'm  going  to 
be  demobilized.  I  can't  marry  on  my  pay."  He  looked 
round  with  sensual  appreciation  of  the  simple  warmth  and 
softness  of  his  quarters.  "Far  too  fond  of  personal  comfort 
for  that.  Have  I  satisfied  your  curiosity  enough  now?" 

"No,  you  haven't  told  me  why  you  promised  to  marry 
her,"  Eric  persisted. 


no  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Did  I  promise?  I  should  be  enormously  interested  to 
know  why  you  say  that." 

"Because  she  told  me,  and  in  this  instance  I  believe  her 
word  in  preference  to  yours.  Why  you  promised  to  marry 
her — I  needn't  bother  you  to  tell  me  that.  I  suppose  you 
found  it  a  necessary  formality." 

Eric  waited  for  a  denial,  though  he  knew  that  it  would 
tell  him  nothing.  Guilty  or  innocent,  Gaymer  must  now  lose 
his  temper  in  vehement  earnest. 

And  yet  no  denial  came. 

"Did  she  tell  you  that,  too  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  chose  to  infer  it." 

"You're  a  desirable  friend  for  a  girl  to  have,  if  you  choose 
to  infer  that  sort  of  thing  about  her.  .  .  Lane,  the  artistic 
temperament  runs  away  with  you.  Now,  if  you'll  excuse 
me,  I  must  go  and  dress.  But,  any  time  you  think  of  any- 
thing else  you'd  like  to  ask  me,  don't  hesitate  to  drop  in. 
I'm  nearly  always  at  home  this  time  of  day  and  I  can  give 
you  a  cocktail,  if  you'll  tell  me  how  to  get  hold  of  any  gin. 
Good-bye." 


CHAPTER  SIX 

THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY 

"And  .  .  .  there  came  down  a  certain  priest  that  way:  and  .  .  . 
he  passed  by  on  the  other  side. 
"And  likewise  a  Levite.  .  ." 

S.  LUKE:  10.  31-2. 

ERIC  drove  to  Ryder  Street  with  the  knowledge  that  he  had 
been  beaten ;  and  for  the  first  time,  now  that  it  was  too  late 
to  be  of  any  use,  he  explored  his  motives  in  going.  An  in- 
grained conventional  sense  of  fitness  told  him  that,  when  a 
man  had  behaved  as  Gaymer  had  done,  he  must  marry  his 
victim  as  a  matter  of  honour ;  more  rational  modern  teach- 
ing objected  that  a  man  would  commit  two  crimes  instead 
of  one  if  he  consented  to  marry  a  woman  whom  he  did  not 
love.  Eric  felt  he  must  really  have  assumed  that  Gaymer 
loved  Ivy  but  that  he  was  too  inconsiderate  to  treat  her 
kindly;  he  had  himself  gone  to  Buckingham  Gate  to  demand 
an  explanation  rather  than  to  force  on  the  marriage. 

But  he  had  been  beaten.  And  what  else  could  he  have 
expected,  after  interfering  in  something  that  did  not  concern 
him  ?  Gaymer's  victorious  rebuff  did  not  matter  so  much  as 
his  adroitness  in  preventing  their  ever  getting  to  grips  over 
Ivy;  he  might  marry  her,  or  he  might  not,  but  at  least  he 
had  made  it  plain  that  he  would  not  be  coerced  even  into 
saying  whether  he  cared  for  her.  .  .  . 

In  his  bath  and  as  he  dressed,  Eric  became  permeated 
with  the  feeling  that  Gaymer  had  no  intention  of  marrying. 
An  honourable  man  with  an  unclouded  conscience  would 
have  resented  interference  far  more  warmly ;  and  a  man  who 

in 


ii2  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

meant  to  keep  his  engagement  had  no  motive  for  not  publish- 
ing it.  And,  after  all,  when  Ivy  had  overcome  her  im- 
mediate unhappiness,  was  not  this  all  for  the  best?  In  a 
further  analysis  Eric  fancied  that  he  had  gone  to  assure  him- 
self of  Gaymer's  bad  faith,  in  part  because  he  distrusted  the 
fellow  and  in  part  because  he  did  not  want  to  see  Ivy's  youth 
sacrificed  to  him.  Perhaps  he  would  have  been  a  little  dis- 
appointed if  Gaymer  had  explained  everything  convincingly. 

The  first  act  of  Aida  was  over  before  Eric  reached  Covent 
Garden.  Hardly  seeing  who  nodded  to  him,  he  hurried 
through  the  crowded  hall  to  the  pit-tier,  only  conscious  of 
the  languid,  chattering  double  procession  on  the  stairs,  as  of 
a  well-dressed,  rich  and  soulless  stage-army  that  never  par- 
ticipated in  the  emotions  and  crises  of  life;  these  people  sur- 
rounded and  stared  uncomprehendingly  at  the  drama  in  their 
midst,  but  they  seemed  to  have  no  drama  of  their  own. 
George  Oakleigh's  box-door  was  open,  but  he  had  passed  it 
before  he  had  time  to  wonder  who  was  inside  and  in 
another  moment  was  apologizing  to  Lady  Maitland  for  his 
lateness. 

"I  must  apologize  to  you,"  she  said,  "for  disturbing  you 
last  night.  It  was  this  naughty  child's  fault.  She  went  on 
to  a  party  and  never  warned  me." 

Ivy's  excuse  had  apparently  been  accepted  without  further 
question,  and  Eric  bowed  and  shook  hands  with  her  as 
though  they  had  not  met  earlier  that  day.  She  was  paler 
than  in  the  morning,  and  her  eyes  and  cheeks  were  hollow 
with  fatigue.  He  could  have  described  every  thought  that 
was  passing  like  a  white-hot  needle  through  her  brain,  for 
she  was  feeling  as  he  had  felt  when  Barbara  broke  faith  with 
him,  betrayed  and  utterly  lost ;  ultimately  it  might  be  all  for 
the  best,  but  days  of  agony  lay  ahead  of  her,  and  she  would 
learn  how  long  and  pitiless  the  nights  could  be. 

As  the  lights  were  lowered,  he  pulled  his  chair  forward, 
resting  his  arms  on  the  sill  of  the  box.  Ivy  leaned  back  to 


THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY       113 

screen  herself  from  her  aunt,  and,  when  he  put  down  his 
glasses  and  half -turned  to  offer  them  to  her,  he  saw  tears 
standing  in  her  eyes.  Feeling  for  her  hand,  he  pressed  it 
gently,  and  a  tear  splashed  hot  and  startling  on  to  his  own. 
She  gripped  and  held  his  fingers  till  the  end  of  the  act ;  and, 
as  the  curtain  fell,  he  stood  up  and  made  a  barrier  of  him- 
self. 

"I  think  this  is  the  appropriate  moment  for  tobacco  and 
fresh  air,"  he  suggested.  "You  not  coming,  Lady  Maitland  ? 
Will  you,  Miss  Maitland?" 

He  opened  the  door  without  waiting  for  a  reply  and  hur- 
ried her  downstairs  and  into  the  street  before  the  first  call 
had  been  taken. 

"It's  cooler  here,"  he  began,  as  they  walked  towards  Long 
Acre.  "Do  you  mind  about  smoking  in  public  ?" 

"I  feel  too  ill,  thanks.  .  .  Mr.  Lane,  I  can't  bear  it! 
All  this  afternoon  I  had  to  hold  myself  back  to  keep  from 
rushing  around  and  beating  on  his  door !  I  couldn't  stay  in 
the  same  room  as  a  telephone.  I  had  to  see  him  and  I  was 
afraid  he'd  turn  me  away.  .  .  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't!" 

"Ssh !  I've  been  through  this,  Ivy,  longer  and  worse  than 
I  pray  you'll  ever  know.  And  you  can  only  get  over  it  by 
setting  your  teeth — " 

"I  don't  want  to  get  over  it !,"  she  broke  out. 

"But  you  must.  And  you  must  begin  getting  over  it  to- 
night. Ivy,  I  went  to  see  Gaymer  this  afternoon." 

She  turned  on  him  in  swift  surprise  which  changed  to 
dawning  hope.  But  there  was  nothing  in  his  face  to  en- 
courage hope,  and  her  eyes  dulled  to  resignation. 

"Yes?,"  she  whispered. 

"You  may  say,  if  you  like,  that  I  had  no  business  to  in- 
terfere. I  went  to  see  if  I  could  do  any  good.  I  did  no 
good  at  all,  I  found  out  nothing  and  I  came  away  with  what's 
commonly  called  a  flea  in  my  ear." 

"Was  she—?" 


ii4  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Ivy  could  not  bring  herself  to  finish  the  sentence,  but  Eric 
guessed  its  end  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  she  has  anything  to  do  with  it.  I  don't 
believe  he  ever  meant  to  marry  you  from  the  moment  when 
he  refused  to  publish  the  engagement." 

"But  he  promised,  he  gave  me  his  oath!" 

"Because  he.  .  .  saw  you  expected  it  of  him.  Ivy,  you 
said  this  morning  that  you'd  told  me  everything.  .  ."  She 
covered  her  face  with  both  hands  as  though  he  had  struck  her. 
"Dear  child,  I'm  not  asking  for  the  pleasure  of  torturing 
you!" 

She  hurried  on  without  answering  by  word  or  nod,  and 
Eric  had  his  answer. 

"You  poor  child!,"  he  whispered.  "Ivy,  I  promised  to 
help  you,  if  I  could ;  you  know  that  this  makes  no  difference, 
don't  you  ?  Except  that  I'm  a  thousand  times  more  anxious 
to  help  you.  I'll  help  you  in  any  way  I  can.  But  you  must 
help  me  to  help  you ;  you  have  to  put  all  your  courage  into 
this—" 

"I  can't!    I  want  to  die!,"  she  sobbed. 

"Don't  talk  like  that !  This  is  a  frightful  thing  for  you, 
but  you  must  see  it  in  perspective.  When  once  you've  the 
pluck  to  recognize  it's  all  over.  .  .  You've  told  no  one 
else ;  no  one  else  has  guessed,  no  one  else  will  ever  know — " 

"But  they  can't  help  it!" 

"Ivy—" 

Eric  looked  at  her,  and  the  glib  solace  died  on  his  lips. 

"Ivy,  pull  yourself  together  and  listen  to  me!"  he  whis- 
pered. "You're  not  to  tell  a  soul  till  I  give  you  leave !  Do 
you  promise?  I  want  time  to  think  this  out.  And  it's 
going  to  be  thought  out,  we're  going  to  win  on  this.  I  swear 
to  you  that  I'll  see  you  through  this  somehow.  Do  you 
believe  me?" 

His  vehemence  steadied  her,  and  she  nodded  quickly: 

"Yes." 


THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY       115 

"Dry  your  eyes !  We  must  be  getting  back,  or  your  aunt 
will  wonder  what's  been  happening  to  us.  Are  you  doing 
anything  to-morrow?  Right!  I'll  make  a  plan  for  to- 
morrow, and  we'll  talk  things  over.  Now  get  control  of 
yourself  and  of  your  voice:  talk  to  me  about  the  opera, 
anything.  We  have  to  put  up  a  big  bluff.  Are  you  ready  ?" 

They  walked  back  to  the  opera-house,  lazily  discussing  the 
singers.  The  hall  was  still  half-full,  and  they,  stopped  to 
exchange  a  greeting  with  Dr.  Gaisford.  In  the  passage 
behind  the  boxes,  Lord  John  Carstairs  and  his  wife  were 
pacing  slowly  up  and  down,  and  they  stopped  again.  Degan- 
way  scurried  past  like  a  frightened  rabbit  and  confided  to 
Lady  Poynter  that  Eric  Lane  and  the  little  Maitland  girl 
were  going  about  again  together. 

"My  dear,  it's  the  second  time  I've  caught  them  to-day!/' 
he  added.  "They're  positively  inseparable." 

Eric  walked  on,  deep  in  conversation.  Barbara  Oakleigh 
was  standing  in  the  open  door-way  of  her  box.  He  did  not 
see  her,  but  she  looked  curiously  at  his  companion  and 
turned  for  a  second  look,  as  they  passed.  When  they  were 
out  of  sight,  she  returned  to  the  front  of  her  box  and 
levelled  her  glasses  on  them  for  a  moment  as  they  sat  down. 

"It's  hotter  than  ever !,"  Eric  exclaimed.  "Lady  Maitland, 
will  you  trust  Ivy  to  me  for  the  whole  of  to-morrow?  I 
want  to  take  her  to  Maidenhead,  we'd  lunch  at  Skindle's, 
punt  gently  for  about  ten  yards — which  is  the  limit  of  my 
punting  capacity — ,  tie  up  under  a  tree  until  dinner,  dine  at 
Skindle's  and  return  to  London.  May  I  do  that  ?  I  promise 
not  to  drown  her." 

Lady  Maitland  smiled  guardedly.  She  had  noticed  for 
some  weeks  that  Eric  was  interested  in  her  niece,  but  this 
was  the  first  time  that  he  had  avowed  it;  and,  though  she 
was  lazily  content  to  keep  Ivy  at  Eaton  Place  or  in  Shrop- 
shire until  she  or  her  parents  came  to  their  senses,  a  marriage 


n6  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

so  suitable  in  every  way  was  undeniably  the  most  satisfactory 
escape  from  an  awkward  family  entanglement. 

"What  do  you  say  about  it,  Ivy  ?,"  she  asked. 

"I  should  love  it.     It's  sweet  of  you,  Mr.  Lane." 

"I'll  call  with  a  taxi  at  half -past  ten,"  said  Eric. 

At  the  end  of  the  opera  he  intercepted  Gaisford  and  begged 
him  to  wait  and  come  home  for  a  drink  as  soon  as  the 
Maitlands  had  been  packed  into  their  car.  The  distraction 
of  the  stage  and  of  the  music,  the  presence  of  Ivy  and  the 
touch  of  her  hand,  which  sought  his  as  soon  as  the  curtain 
went  up,  kept  him  from  thinking  clearly;  and  he  needed 
the  shrewd  brain  and  blunt  speech  of  one  who  had  been  a 
second  father  to  him  in  order  to  correct  his  own  impulses. 

From  Covent  Garden  to  Ryder  Street  the  two  men  drove 
in  silence.  Only  when  the  doctor  had  been  given  an  arm- 
chair, a  brandy  and  soda  and  a  cigar  did  he  say: 

"Well,  my  son,  who's  worrying  you  now  ?  It's  a  mistake 
to  let  people  worry  you." 

"How  d'you  know  any  one's  worrying  me?,"  asked  Eric. 

"Because  you're  one  of  these  damned  reserved  people 
who  never  squeal  when  they're  hurt  themselves,  but  simply 
go  through  the  world  inviting  other  people  to  hurt  them. 
Drive  ahead.  To-morrow's  Sunday,  so  I  don't  mind  if  you 
keep  me  up  late." 

Eric  threw  himself  into  one  chair  and  put  his  feet  up  in 
another. 

"It's  in  strict  confidence,  of  course,"  he  began  slowly. 
"A  girl  I  know  slightly  has  been  victimized  by  some  one 
whom  for  brevity  I  may  describe  as  an  "officer  and  a  gentle- 
man"; now  she  has  to  face  the  consequences.  My  interest 
in  the  thing's  confined  to  keeping  her  from  chucking  her- 
self under  the  nearest  train.  What's  to  be  done,  Gaisford?" 

The  doctor  hoisted  himself  on  to  a  smaller  chair,  where  he 
took  up  a  favourite  attitude  with  feet  round  the  legs  and  his 
arms  folded  over  the  back. 


THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY       117 

"I  want  a  lot  more  data  than  that,"  he  grunted.  "Is  she  the 
girl  who  was  with  you  to-night?"  Eric  stared  at  his  cigar 
without  answering.  "Good!  I  don't  want  to  know  her 
name — or  the  man's.  I  take  it  she's  a  girl  in  a  good  social 
position.  And  I  take  it  that  you're  not  proposing  that  I 
should  run  my  head  against  the  law?  Good  again!  Why 
doesn't  he  marry  her?" 

"Doesn't  want  to.    Never  meant  to." 

"Does  he  know  the  state  she's  in?" 

"I  can't  say.  With  respect,  I  don't  think  it  matters.  I'd 
never  encourage  any  girl  to  marry  a  man  against  his  will 
just  to  preserve  her  reputation." 

"I'm  inclined  to  agree.    Has  she  any  money?" 

"Her  parents  have." 

"She  has  parents?    Then  where  do  you  come  in?" 

Eric  laughed  with  impatient  bitterness,  jumping  up  with 
a  wriggle  of  his  shoulder-blades  and  beginning  to  fidget  with 
the  bibelots  on  his  mantelpiece. 

"That's  what  I've  been  asking  myself  for  some  time,"  he 
jerked  out;  "and  especially  while  I  was  bearding  the  man 
this  afternoon.  .  .  Father,  mother,  married  sisters,  broth- 
ers. .  .  But  I  don't  think  she  can  go  to  her  people.  She 
doesn't  get  on  very  well  with  them  at  the  best  of  times  and, 
if  I  diagnose  her  aright,  she'd  screw  up  her  courage  to 
commit  suicide  long  before  she'd  screw  up  her  courage  to 
face  them.  I  met  her  for  a  moment  in  New  York,  and  she's 
confided  in  me  for  some  reason.  She's  one  of  these  modern, 
emancipated  girls  who  want  to  live  by  themselves  and  lead 
their  own  lives — " 

The  doctor  interrupted  him  with  an  impatient  sniff : 

"Then  she  needn't  bother  to  find  a  father  for  her  child." 

"My  dear  Gaisford,  you  know  the  worth  and  weight  of 
all  that  froth !  Modern  woman  wants  to  make  the  best  of 
both  sexes;  she  thinks  she  can  get  'freedom'  and  'equality' 
without  fighting  or  paying  for  it.  Once  present  the  bill — ! 


n8  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

As  I  see  it,  I'm  the  only  soul  that  the  girl  can  turn  to ;  and, 
in  that  belief,  I've  promised  to  see  her  through.  I  suppose 
this  sort  of  thing  is  happening  daily;  I  suppose  she  can  be 
sent  somewhere  till  the  trouble's  over.  .  .  If  necessary — I've 
not  thought  it  out  yet — ,  I'll  take  her  abroad  as  my  secre- 
tary—" 

A  scornful  snort  interrupted  his  flow  of  facile  suggestion : 

"How  old  is  she?  Twenty?  And  a  very  pretty  girl,  so 
far  as  I  could  see.  And  you're  disgustingly  well-known. 
Don't  you  think  it  would  cause  some  little  comment,  if  you 
and  she  went  on  your  travels  together?  .  .  .  After  all,  I 
think  you'd  better  tell  me  who  she  is." 

Eric  shook  his  head,  and  a  silence  followed.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Connie  Maitland's  niece,  a  daughter  of  the  judge,"  he  said 
at  length. 

"My  dear  friend,  there  are  limits  to  human  faith  even  in 
your  moral  reputation!"  cried  the  doctor.  "No,  something 
can  be  done  in  this  country,  but  you  must  find  an  excuse  for 
getting  her  away  from  her  friends  for  a  considerable  time." 

"I  was  wondering  whether  I'd  get  my  mother  to  ask  her 
down  to  Lashmar." 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  on  Lady  Lane ;  she's  of  the  old  school. 
Besides,  your  sister  wouldn't  give  her  a  fair  chance:  a 
woman's  severest  judges  are  her  own  sex.  And  you've 
brothers ;  the  girl  wouldn't  face  them.  And  you  always  tell 
me  it's  a  dead-and-alive  little  hamlet  where  the  servants 
would  gossip  and  every  one  would  gape  and  whisper.  In 
twenty-four  hours  the  responsibility  would  be  laid  at  your 
door,  and  people  would  wonder  why  you  didn't  marry  her." 

"I'm  beginning  to  wonder  that  myself." 

Gaisford  prepared  to  speak  and  then  closed  his  lips,  wait- 
ing for  more  to  come,  as  Eric  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand 
and  tapped  the  fender  with  one  restless  heel.  By  shutting 
out  the  light  he  could  forget  the  doctor's  presence  and 


THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY       119 

imagine  the  room  as  he  had  seen  it  that  morning,  with  a  slim 
black  figure  shrinking  into  one  corner  of  a  big  chair.  At 
this  moment — he  listened  to  the  calm  deliberate  ticking  of  the 
clock  behind  his  head — at  this  moment  she  was  probably  lying 
on  her  bed,  powerless  even  to  undress,  smothering  her  sobs 
in  a  pillow ;  or  perhaps  she  was  on  her  knees,  praying  wildly, 
desperately  until  she  fell  asleep  from  exhaustion;  when  she 
awoke,  a  sense  of  disaster  would  cloud  and  terrify  her  mind 
until  it  defined  itself  and  she  wept  to  find  herself  still  alive. 
The  anguished  incoherence  of  her  prayers  seemed  to  rise  and 
swell  like  wind  in  the  rigging  of  a  ship;  he  could  see  her 
very  clearly,  hear  her  very  plainly.  .  .  . 

The  creak  of  the  doctor's  chair  recalled  him  to  the  present, 
and  Eric  looked  cautiously  round  the  room  as  though  uncer- 
tain who  was  there.  From  the  moment  when  Ivy  came  and 
sobbed  in  his  arms,  he  had  forgotten  everything  but  an 
urgent  need  to  help  her;  one  accusing  pile  of  letters  lay 
unopened  on  his  writing-table,  another  was  waiting  unsigned ; 
he  had  done  no  work ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  nearly  three 
years  he  had  hardly  thought  of  Barbara. 

But  there  was  something  more  than  an  abstract  desire  to 
help.  He  could  now  confess  to  himself  that  he  would  have 
been  disappointed  if  Gaymer  had  been  anxious  or  even 
willing  to  marry  Ivy.  .  .  . 

"It  would  tbe  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty,"  he  suggested 
indifferently. 

"And  it  would  be  one  way  into  a  great  many  others,"  said 
Gaisford  sharply,  a  little  startled  to  find  himself  taken  so 
literally. 

"You  mean  I'm  damaged  goods?  I  know  that,"  said  Eric 
quietly. 

Gaisford  made  a  noise  of  impatience  as  he  looked  up  at 
the  spare  frame  and  thin,  vital  face  in  front  of  him.  He 
was  reasonably  proud  of  the  man  whom  he  had  so  long 
kept  alive  and  now  restored  to  full  health. 


120  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"I  mean  nothing  of  the  kind.  Eric,  you  owl,  you're 
making  a  very  big  income,  you've  a  very  big  reputation  all 
over  the  world.  You've  everything  to  offer.  If  you're  treat- 
ing the  question  as  a  profit -and-loss  account,  I  confess  I  don't 
see  what  this  girl — " 

"Don't  you?"  As  he  stared  up  at  the  light,  Eric's  eyes 
grew  bigger  and  changed  from  smouldering  brown  to  a  black 
brilliance  that  illumined  his  whole  face.  "She  gives  me 
youth,  beauty.  .  .  Gaisford,  if  you  try  to  be  cynical,  I  shah 
brain  you ;  she  gives  me  something  to  talk  to,  something  to 
look  after,  something  to  care  for.  .  .  Some  one  who  believes) 
in  me.  .  .  I  don't  ask  more  than  that  of  any  woman  in  these 
latter  days.  All  this  business  about  money  and  position.  .  . 
God!  If  I  could  give  everything  I've  got,  everything  I'm 
likely  to  get,  lay  it  at  her  feet,  persuade  her  to  accept  it — " 

"Are  you  in  love  with  her?,"  the  doctor  enquired  with  a 
sedative  detachment  that  stilled  the  passion  in  Eric's  voice. 

"It  might  make  me.  .  .  I've  been  paralysed  for  the  last 
two  years;  there's  been  absolutely  nothing  in  life  for  me. 
I  must  be  fond  of  that  child,  or  I  couldn't  worry  about  her 
so  much.  .  .  If  I  had  somebody  to  care  for,  somebody  to 
try  and  make  happy,  somebody  to  take  me  out  of  myself  and 
make  me  forget  myself.  .  .  Then  I  could  win.  .  .  I  never 
used  to  be  lonely.  .  .  I'm  talking  to  you  as  the  ideas  come, 
Gaisford.  .  .  You  said  it  as  a  joke,  but,  if  you  ask  me 
seriously  why  I  don't  marry  her.  .  .  ." 

His  tone  and  attitude  did  not  invite  cynicism.  Gaisford 
stood  up  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulders. 

"Sit  down,"  he  suggested.  "You  mustn't  do  anything  till 
you've  thought  this  over  coolly.  In  the  first  place,  what  do 
you  know  of  the  girl?  She's  broken  down  completely  in 
what  most  men  consider  to  be  woman's  first  essential." 

"She's  a  child,"  cried  Eric,  wrestling  free  from  the  numb- 
ing bondage  of  Gaisford's  sedative  voice.  "If  you  told  me 
that  he'd  made  her  drunk.  .  .  or  doped  her.  .  .  I  shouldn't 


THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY       121 

be  surprised.  This  is  a  thing  that  touched  her  body  and  not 
her  spirit." 

The  doctor  grimaced  unconsciously  at  the  romantic 
phrasing : 

"I  see.  She's  a  child,  and  you  think  you're  going  to  form 
her  mind  and  character.  .  .  Don't  interrupt,  Eric;  every 
man  thinks  that  of  every  woman  mentally  less  mature  than 
himself.  Is  she  going  to  be  an  intelligent  companion  or  a 
pathetic  doll?  Is  she  honest?  Is  she  honourable?  Is  she 
unselfish  ?  Is  she  loyal  ?  Has  she  grit — under  the  pink  and 
white  of  the  child  ?  Those  are  qualities  that  every  wife  must 
have.  In  other  words,"  he  continued  with  prosaic  mockery, 
"d'you  know  a — single — dam' — thing  about  her?  Is  she 
clever  enough,  Eric,  to  know  how  to  live  with  you?  I  don't 
doubt  your  patience,  affection,  self-effacement  and  the  rest, 
but  you're  a  queer  customer,  you  know ;  an  idealist  .  .  . 
you'd  hit  me  if  I  said  she  deserved  all  she'd  got  .  .  .;  too 
many  nerves,  much  too  sensitive;  if  I  tell  you  you've  a  smut 
on  your  nose,  you'll  probably  forswear  human  society  and 
run  away  for  ten  years  to  a  desert  island.  Can  she  live  with 
you  without  getting  on  your  nerves?  And — remember  I've 
seen  her  for  three  seconds,  at  a  distance — are  you  man 
enough  to  control  her?  I  don't  gather  she's  learnt  much 
self-discipline;  can  you  lick  her  into  shape,  or  will  you  go 
flabby  every  time  she  cries?" 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  but  Eric  only  murmured : 

"Go  on." 

"Marriage  is  a  long  and  intimate  business.  You're  not 
marrying  her  for  passion — or  money — or  social  advantage; 
you've  to  start  right  away  with  what  most  people  come  to 
when  passion's  worn  out ;  you've  to  be  companions  from  the 
beginning.  And  you  know  as  little  of  her  as  I  do.  You 
must  wait,  therefore — " 

Eric  interrupted  him  with  a  quick  gesture: 


122  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"If  I'm  to  be  of  any  use,  I  must  act  at  once.  The  girl's 
nearly  out  of  her  mind." 

"I'm  sorry  for  her.  That  doesn't  justify  you  in  doing 
something  that  may  send  both  of  you  nearly  out  of  your 
minds  before  you've  been  married  six  months.  After  all, 
something  can  be  done  to  avoid  a  scandal.  And  you  must 
study  her.  .  .  And  study  yourself.  I  mean,  have  you  con- 
sidered how  you'll  like  to  have  another  man's  child  always 
with  you  and  to  pretend  it's  yours  ?  Are  you  strong  enough 
never  to  patronize?  And  do  you  want  a  wife  who  marries 
you  out  of  gratitude  or  one  who  marries  you  because  she 
loves  you?" 

"I  want  to  have  some  one  in  my  life  who  belongs  to  me," 
Eric  answered.  "Another  man's  child.  .  .  Complications 
generally.  .  .  I  feel  rather  like  a  man  who  tries  to  escape 
from  the  pains  of  life  by  embracing  a  new  faith ;  the  more 
services  and  observances  and  penances  you  give  me,  the 
better  I  shall  be  pleased." 

Gaisford  wrinkled  his  nose  and  sniffed. 

"Excellent  for  the  first  week,"  he  said.  "Will  you  be  of 
the  same  mind  a  year  from  now,  if  you  find  she  gets  on  your 
nerves  so  that  you  can't  work?  This  is  self-indulgence.  .  . 
Don't  glare  at  me !  You're  as  bad  as  all  the  rest,  you've  the 
faults  of  your  ridiculous,  neurotic  generation.  This  is  a 
stunt!  You're  having  enormous  fun  with  a  brand-new 
emotion.  .  .  By  the  way,  you'll  probably  have  to  tell  your 
people  everything." 

Eric  nodded  without  speaking.  Obviously  Lady  Lane 
would  have  to  be  told.  She  was  a  kind  woman,  a  practical 
Christian ;  she  would  be  shocked  and  touched ;  she  too  would 
think  in  terms  of  sacrifice  and  she  would  admire  her  son 
extravagantly.  In  her  heart,  too,  she  would  despise  Ivy  as 
a  traitor  who  had  sold  her  sex;  she  would  find  a  thousand 
honest  objections  to  the  marriage,  she  would  conscientiously 
make  Ivy  miserable  by  hinting  them  to  her;  she  would  ex- 


THE  REWARD  OF  SYMPATHY       123 

haust  every  device  for  getting  her  practical  Christianity 
carried  out  by  deputy;  and,  if  she  failed  to  save  her  son,  he 
would  lose  his  mother  in  the  very  struggle  which  she  was 
making  on  his  behalf. 

"I  see  that,"  said  Eric  grimly.  "Plenty  of  obstacles,  aren't 
there  ?  And  all  because  she  sat  in  this  chair  this  morning  and 
cried  her  heart  out." 

Gaisford  looked  at  his  watch  and  jumped  up  with  an 
exclamation  of  dismay: 

"D'you  know  it's  two  o'clock,  Eric?  I  must  get  to  bed. 
Understand !  I'm  not  forbidding  the  banns,  but  promise  me 
to  think  before  you  do  anything  irrevocable ;  you're  too  good 
to  waste  on  an  impulse.  Only  one  thing  more.  Why  was 
she  crying  this  morning?" 

"You  can  hardly  expect  her  to  be  light-hearted.  I  should 
think  the  man  didn't  mince  matters  with  her  last  night — =" 

"And  she  was  crying — for  him.  Don't  forget  that,  my 
friend.  Unless  she's  right-down  vicious,  he  must  have 
fascinated  her  pretty  completely  before  she  consented  to  play 
the  fool  like  this ;  she  was  very  much  in  love  with  him.  For 
all  I  know,  she  may  be  very  much  in  love  with  him  still. 
You're  adding  to  your  troubles,  if  you've  to  chain  her  by  the 
leg  to  keep  her  from  going  back  to  him." 

"She  won't  have  much  temptation  when  the  blackguard's 
deserted  her." 

Gaisford  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  succession  of  grunts : 

"Women  don't — have  much  temptation — to  go  on  living — 
with  men  who  beat  them. — They  still  do  it,  though — even 
when  there  are  no  children, — even  when  they  could  run 
away.  .  .  You  always  underrate  the  strength  of  sex  in  a 
woman ;  I'm  afraid  you  always  will.  It's  because  you're  an 
idealist.  .  .  ." 

Eric  did  not  go  to  bed  at  once.  The  conversation  had 
excited  hi^  brain  too  much;  and  he  felt  that,  if  he  had  to 


124  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

meet  Ivy  in  the  morning,  he  must  first  deal  honestly  with 
every  objection  raised  by  Gaisford  and  overcome  it  or  be 
overcome  by  it.  He  started  virtuously,  as  he  began  to  un- 
dress, but  quickly  tired.  There  was  a  trace  of  powder  on 
his  looking-glass;  he  could  not  see  his  familiar  wash-hand- 
stand without  seeing  in  imagination  Ivy's  slim,  black  figure 
bending  over  it,  as  she  bathed  her  eyes.  And  then  he  knew 
that  he  had  only  listened  to  Gaisford  in  order  to  have  some 
idea  what  difficulties  he  had  to  face. 

Already  his  brain  was  half -unconsciously  making  plans, 
as  it  had  not  done  since  last  he  had  in  his  life  some  one  who 
belonged  to  him,  "somebody  to  work  for  and  take  care  of." 
As  he  had  lived  through  the  day  with  scarcely  a  thought  for 
Barbara,  so  now  he  could  think  of  her  without  wincing.  He 
set  himself  to  think  of  her  deliberately,  as  she  used  to  come 
into  the  library,  or  sit  on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  fire,  resting 
her  head  against  his  knee.  Her  changes  of  expression  were 
as  familiar  as  ever;  he  could  conjure  up  her  phrases,  her 
intonation  and  laugh ;  the  touch  of  her  hand  was  still  felt  in 
his,  but  he  could  think  of  her  without  pain.  That  was  a  silent 
answer  to  Gaisford's  questions. 

Eric  could  have  put  it  into  words,  but  he  only  discovered 
it  when  he  was  alone,  when  the  flat  was  empty,  when  he  could 
shut  his  eyes  without  seeing  Barbara's  wan  ghost  ,  .  . 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

A  DOUBLE  RESCUE 

"One  marries  a  girl  and  lives  with  a  woman.     I  think  I  know 
something  about  girls,  but  I  am  sure  I  know  nothing  about  women." 
J.  A.  SPENDER:     "THE  COMMENTS  OF  BAGSHOT." 

THOUGH  the  sun  shone  with  warm  encouragement  as  Eric 
swerved  and  rattled  through  the  forbidding  Sunday  calm  of 
Eaton  Place,  he  was  chilled  by  anxiety,  a  broken  night  and 
a  sense  of  his  own  amazing  rashness.  Though  he  was  still 
uncommitted  in  act,  his  mind  had  made  itself  up  so  firmly 
that  he  could  not  change  it  without  a  breach  of  faith.  And 
now  he  expected  to  meet  with  one  disappointment  after 
another :  Ivy  had  proved  herself  frail  and  not  wholly  truth- 
ful ;  he  would  find  her  to  be  heartless  or  insipid  or  common- 
place; perhaps  she  would  reveal  a  disconcerting  streak  of 
vulgarity,  he  might  well  have  been  mistaken  in  thinking  her 
even  pretty.  .  .  . 

"I  hope  you  hadn't  arranged  to  do  anything  else  to-day," 
he  said,  as  they  drove  to  Paddington. 

"I  was  only  going  to  dine  with  father  and  mother,"  Ivy 
answered  listlessly.  "The  usual  Sunday  supper." 

"Well,  we  can  get  back  in  time  for  that." 

"I  don't  mind  missing  it  for  once.  He's  just  come  back 
from  assizes;  and  they  always  make  him  so  pompous  that 
mother  and  I  can  do  nothing  with  him  for  weeks  afterwards." 

"But  he'll  be  disappointed,"  Eric  suggested.  Already  a 
blemish !  Ivy  always  seemed  so  selfish  in  her  attitude  towards 
her  parents  that  she  might  become  equally  inconsiderate 
towards  her  husband.  "We'll  telephone  from  Maidenhead  to 

125 


126  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

say  you're  coming,  and  you  can  ask  if  you  may  bring  me. 
I  don't  mind  cadging  an  invitation,  because  you  remember 
I  was  invited  once  before  and  couldn't  go." 

"Oh,  they'll  be  delighted  to  see  you,"  Ivy  answered  without 
enthusiasm. 

Was  it  a  blemish  that  she  acquiesced  so  easily  ?  Would  it 
have  been  a  blemish  if  she  had  resisted?  Eric  told  himself 
that  he  must  cut  short  this  microscopic  search  for  faults,  but 
he  was  not  disposed  to  let  her  off  a  meeting  with  her  parents. 
He  would  really  know  very  little  of  Ivy  until  he  had  seen 
her  framed  in  her  own  house  and  flanked  by  the  formidable 
judge  and  his  passive  consort;  a  chance  encounter  in  New 
York  and  their  few  stilted  meetings  in  London  revealed  only 
her  insincere  social  mannerisms,  while  in  their  two  emotional 
passages  she  had  shewn  him  only  the  tragic  mask. 

In  the  cab  and  in  the  train  neither  was  at  ease,  for  Eric 
did  not  know  how  or  when  to  begin  speaking,  and  Ivy  stared 
blankly  out  of  the  window  with  watery  eyes,  accepting  his 
arrangement  and  disposal  of  her  with  dull  thanks  from  a 
drooping  mouth.  Would  she  always  be  like  this  ?  Must  her 
vitality  always  be  drawn  from  him?  For  months,  perhaps 
for  years,  she  would  mourn  her  lost  lover ;  Eric  would  have 
to  bear  with  irresponsive  apathy.  .  .  He  gave  her  two 
papers,  which  she  allowed  to  rest  on  her  knees,  and  tried 
to  forget  his  discouragement  in  looking  about  him. 

The  station  was  crowded  with  men  in  flannels  and  girls  in 
gauzy  frocks,  all  oppressively  high-spirited  and  resolved  to 
enjoy  themselves.  Every  seat  was  taken  before  the  train 
had  been  five  minutes  in  the  station,  and,  when  it  started, 
Eric  found  himself  squeezed  between  Ivy  and  another  girl 
in  a  carriage  with  six  aside  and  four  men  standing.  He 
looked  from  one  to  another,  contrasting  the  girls'  faces  and 
bearing.  There  was  an  absurd  similarity  in  hats  and  dresses, 
in  their  very  shape  and  feature  and  age.  All  were  wearing 
grey  or  white  buckskin  shoes,  grey  or  white  silk  stockings 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  127 

thin  as  gossamer;  all  were  wearing  spider's-web  hats  and 
low-cut  dresses  with  transparent  sleeves.  Their  average 
age  was  twenty;  they  were  perfectly  happy,  perfectly  well- 
pleased  with  themselves  and  in  perfect  health.  Like  that 
stage-army  overnight  at  the  opera,  life — as  a  thing  of  ecstasy 
or  racking  pain — passed  them  by.  Ivy  watched  him,  as 
he  watched  them,  and  he  could  feel  her  arm  trembling 
against  his. 

"I  telephoned  for  a  cab,"  said  Eric,  as  the  train  slowed 
into  Maidenhead.  "And  a  table.  And  a  punt."  There 
was  no  answer;  and  he  leaned  towards  her,  lowering  his 
voice  to  a  whisper:  "Ivy,  I've  been  looking  forward  to  this 
ever  since  last  night." 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  disappointed  in  me,"  she  sighed. 

"I  shall  only  be  disappointed  if  you  don't  enjoy  yourself." 

Ivy  shivered  and  hid  her  face  from  him;  but,  as  the  ar- 
rangements for  the  day  unfolded  themselves,  she  could  not 
help  responding  to  his  solicitude.  Nothing  had  been  for- 
gotten, nothing  could  have  been  improved.  They  drove  in 
comfort  through  the  crowded,  narrow  streets  of  Maidenhead, 
while  others  struggled  for  cabs  or  resigned  themselves  to 
walking ;  a  table  was  waiting  for  them  by  an  open  window, 
and  intuition  had  warned  him  that  she  would  want  to  lunch 
off  lobster  and  strawberries.  By  luck  or  contrivance  they 
were  served  by  the  most  attentive  waiter ;  the  most  comfort- 
able chairs  were  ready  for  them  at  the  water's  edge,  when 
they  came  out  to  the  lawn  for  coffee;  and  the  sun  blazed 
down  on  them  from  a  cloudless  sky.  In  the  hotel  several 
people  had  spoken  or  nodded  to  Eric;  Grace  Pentyre  and 
Lady  John  Carstairs  detached  themselves  from  their  parties 
to  cross  the  lawn  and  compliment  Ivy  on  her  dress ;  she  felt 
her  self-respect  reviving  and  surrendered  to  the  enveloping 
atmosphere  of  well-being. 

"You  are  good  to  me!,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  when 


128  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Eric  returned  to  her  after  ordering  the  punt  to  be  made 
ready. 

"Are  you  happy?,"  he  asked. 

"I'm — enjoying  myself." 

"Ah!  that's  not  enough.  .  .  I  don't  believe  I've  been  to 
Maidenhead  since  I  was  an  undergraduate." 

"Too  much  work?  I've  never  had  enough  in  one  year  to 
keep  me  busy  for  one  day !,"  she  exclaimed  impatiently. 

"And  I've  always  had  more  in  one  day  than  I  could  do  in 
a  year,  ever  since  I  was  a  small  boy.'' 

He  helped  her  into  the  punt  and  began  paddling  up  stream 
in  search  of  a  quiet  place  for  mooring.  Half-an-hour 
passed  before  he  noticed  that  he  was  talking  only  about  him- 
self and  his  boyhood,  his  family  and  his  work;  then  he 
stopped  self-consciously,  and  Ivy  looked  up  eagerly,  waiting 
for  him  to  go  on. 

"I  envy  you !  I'd  give  anything  to  be  you !,"  she  exclaimed. 
"When  I  think  of  my  life.  .  .  and  yours.  .  .  ." 

Eric  smiled  and  headed  for  the  bank,  where  he  made  fast 
to  an  obtruding  willow-root.  Then  he  stepped  into  the 
middle  of  the  punt,  rearranged  the  cushions  at  Ivy's  back 
and  sat  beside  her. 

"Comfortable?,"  he  asked  her.  "Ivy.  .  .  I  want  you  to 
think  over  what  I'm  going  to  say,  take  your  time  and  tell 
me  what  you  make  of  it  when  you've  thought  it  over  from 
every  point  of  view  for,  say,  a  month."  He  lighted  a 
cigarette  and  looked  straight  ahead  of  him.  "I  want  to 
know  whether  you'll  marry  me."  She  sat  up,  rigid  with 
amazement,  looking  at  him  with  round  eyes.  He  laid  a  hand 
on  her  shoulder  and  pressed  her  gently  back.  "I've  saved  a 
fair  amount  of  money  and  I'm  making  a  good  income ;  one 
hopes  it  will  go  on.  I  would  do  all  I  could  to  make  you 
happy.  .  .  Before  you  decide,  you  must  try  to  imagine 
whether  I'm  the  sort  of  person  that  you  think  you  could 
live  with.  I'm  not  a  professional  invalid,  but  I  have  to  lead 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  129 

rather  a  careful  life  and  I  suppose  I've  as  many  angles  as 
most  bachelors.  .  .  ." 

When  she  tried  to  speak,  he  had  stopped  her;  but  he 
found  it  impossible  to  go  on  cataloguing  himself  while  she 
sat  silent  with  bitten,  bloodless  lips. 

"But.  .  .  I  thought  you  understood!,"  Ivy  broke  in,  as 
he  paused.  "I'm  not  fit.  .  .  You.  .  .  or  anybody." 

Eric  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  at  her,  but  he  felt  for 
her  hand. 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to — yet  awhile,"  he  said.  "But,  when 
you've  had  time  to  think  it  over.  .  .  Anything  that  you've 
told  me,  I — I've  forgotten.  In  your  turn,  you'll  have  to  take 
me  as  you  find  me.  .  .  I'm  a  solitary  man.  .  .  I  should  like 
some  one  to  take  care  of.  .  .  Will  you  think  this  over,  Ivy, 
very  slowly  and  very  carefully?  It's  a  big  risk.  .  .  If  you 
say  'no' — "  he  hesitated  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The 
doubts  of  the  morning  had  melted  like  snow  beneath  a  tropic 
sun ;  he  had  recovered  the  mood  of  overnight  in  which  pity 
fiercer  than  desire  set  before  his  eyes  the  picture  of  Ivy, 
praying  in  wild  despair,  and  filled  his  ears  with  the  fancied 
mutter  of  her  prayers.  If  she  said  "no,"  he  would  be 
tempted  to  plead  and  argue  against  her  decision  and  his  own 
better  judgement ;  he  hoped  that  he  might  not  be  tempted — 
"if  you  say  'no' " — he  hesitated  again  and  moistened  his  lips 
— "I  can  make  certain  arrangements  that  will  spare  you  the 
worst ;  if  you  say  'yes',  I  propose  that  we  get  married  very 
quietly  and  go  abroad  for  a  time.  What  matters  now  is  that 
you  should  feel  comfortable  in  mind;  there's  nothing  in  the 
world  for  you  to  worry  about." 

He  withdrew  his  hand  and  shaded  his  eyes  to  look  at  the 
leisurely  procession  of  boats  converging  at  the  gate  of 
Boulter's  Lock.  Now  that  he  had  laid  his  proposal  before 
her,  he  seemed  cold  and  repellent  where  he  had  meant  to 
make  a  single,  irresistible  gesture  of  magnanimity;  it  was 
only  by  giving  her  everything  and  by  spending  himself  to 


130  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

give  her  more  that  he  could  heal  the  wounds  in  his  own 
spirit.  Ivy's  world  must  be  the  fairy  palace  of  a  dream.  .  .  . 

As  the  silence  lengthened,  he  wondered  whether  he  wanted 
her  to  say  anything  yet.  .  .  The  announcement  would  create 
a  sensation.  Many  would  be  disappointed,  a  few  pleased  by 
the  surface  of  romance ;  his  mother  would  look  at  the  slim, 
dark,  undeveloped  child  and  wonder  whether  he  had  been 
captivated  by  her  youthful  prettiness  and  whether  such  in- 
experience could  possibly  make  him  happy;  he  wondered 
in  his  turn  whether  a  mother's  uncanny  intuition  would 
discover  that  he  was  not  marrying  for  love.  Ivy,  for  that 
matter,  would  not  be  marrying  for  love ;  she  would  be  marry- 
ing, at  nineteen,  for  safety.  Even  if  she  had  loved  him  now, 
in  ten  years'  time  she  would  be  a  different  woman,  capable 
of  a  different  love;  if  she  were  assailed  later  by  a  passion 
to  which  she  could  not  now  pretend,  he  wondered  how  far 
gratitude  would  restrain  her.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  understand.  .  ."  Ivy's  voice  was  quavering. 
"I've  been  praying  to  die,  ever  since  I  knew.  .  .  Why 
should  you.  .  .?" 

Her  voice  rose  tremulously,  broke  and  died  away.  Still 
without  looking  at  her,  Eric  gripped  her  wrist. 

"But  why  not  ?,"  he  asked. 

"I'm  nothing  to  you,  and  you're —  It  isn't  fair  on  you." 

"I'm  the  best  judge  of  that,"  he  answered  with 
exultant,  fierce  excitement  that  made  his  voice  harsh.  "But 
you're  not  to  decide  anything  for  the  moment,"  he  went  on 
more  gently.  "Just  tell  me — are  you  happy?" 

He  felt  his  hand  brushed  by  her  lips.  Then  she  dragged 
her  wrist  from  his  fingers  and  bent  forward,  burying  her 
head  in  her  lap. 

They  both  felt  exhausted;  and  neither  knew  what  to  do 
next.  The  pitiless  publicity  of  Boulter's  Lock  held  them  in 
artificial  restraint;  there  were  numberless  prosaic  arrange- 
ments to  be  contrived,  but  Eric  shirked  the  emotional 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  131 

violence  of  abruptly  broaching  them.  As  she  regained  com- 
posure, Ivy  took  off  her  hat  and  drew  herself  upright  with 
her  hands  clasped  round  her  knees,  looking  away  from  him 
to  the  line  of  punts  under  the  opposite  bank.  She  had  pretty 
feet  and  ankles,  pretty  arms  and  shoulders,  a  straight  thin 
back  and  slender  neck ;  since  their  first  meeting  she  had  lost 
something  of  her  looks  by  suddenly  becoming  so  thin,  but 
the  sharpness  of  outline  added  to  her  charm  of  youth  and 
delicacy.  Eric  suddenly  remembered  his  chill  of  misgiving 
as  he  drove  to  Eaton  Place,  expecting  to  be  disappointed  in 
her ;  a  warm  wave  of  compassion  blinded  him,  and  he  asked 
himself  how  a  man  of  Gaymer's  upbringing  and  traditions 
could  bring  himself  to  commit  the  social  sin  for  which  there 
was  no  pardon;  if  he  had  waited  till  Ivy  was  married,  an 
intrigue  would  have  been  venial ;  if  he  had  chosen  a  girl 
from  a  humbler  walk  of  life,  no  one  would  have  asked  more 
than  that  he  should  behave  liberally  to  her.  .  .  That  was 
conventional  morality  in  England.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  the  one  impossible  thing  had  been  made  possible 
by  the  war.  For  five  years  there  had  been  whispered 
rumours  of  desolating  scandals  scotched  at  the  last  moment. 
England  was  sex-intoxicated ;  women  married  light-heartedly 
on  a  few  weeks'  acquaintance  and  married  again  a  few 
months  later  when  their  husbands  had  been  killed,  without 
prejudicing  their  right  to  acquire  three  or  four  lovers  in  the 
interval.  And  those  who  remained  technically  virtuous  talked 
sex  by  day  and  dreamed  it  at  night ;  there  was  nothing  they 
did  not  know,  nothing  they  would  not  discuss,  and  in  this 
welter  of  short-lived  artificial  excitement,  when  all  were 
overworked  and  overstimulated,  when  vague  cosmic  hungers 
made  themselves  felt  and  an  opportunity  became  a  duty,  it 
was  not  surprising  that  some  had  lost  their  heads. 

But  Ivy  looked  too  fastidious.  Her  deferential  timidity, 
under  the  skin-deep  manner  of  bustle  and  efficiency  which 
had  irritated  him  in  New  York,  was  no  challenge  to  a  man ; 


132  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

her  youth  imposed  an  obligation  on  any  one  with  the  wit  to 
see  her  as  an  emancipated  school-girl ;  a  libertine,  when  he 
had  pierced  the  veneer  of  assurance,  would  find  her  insipid ; 
and,  even  if  Gaymer  was  insensible  to  discrimination  and 
honourable  restraint,  Eric  could  not  understand  her  allowing 
herself  to  fall  into  his  hands.  Men  and  women  drifted 
dizzily  without  seeing  where  they  were  going  or  how  far  they 
had  gone,  but  Ivy  seemed  yet  enough  of  a  child  to  stop 
herself  by  sheer  ignorant  instinct  before  she  began  to  drift. 

"Eric!" 

He  turned  quickly,  for  Ivy  had  never  before  used  his 
Christian  name. 

"Yes?" 

"Eric.  .  ."  She  hesitated,  and  he  saw  that  her  cheeks  were 
crimson.  "Eric,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  Johnnie." 

"My  dear,  I've  forgotten  that  there  is  such  a  person." 

After  screwing  herself  up  to  do  her  duty,  Ivy  did  not  feel 
entitled  to  be  relieved  of  it. 

"Perhaps  you  won't  think  as  badly  of  me  afterwards,"  she 
faltered. 

"But  I  don't  think  badly  of  you!  I  want  a  new  life  to 
start  from  to-day.  If  we  get  married — you  mustn't  dream 
of  deciding  yet — ,  I  want  to  obliterate  everything  that  hap- 
pened before  to-day.  So  far  as  our  joint  life  is  concerned, 
we  meet  now  for  the  first  time.  Let's  see  all  we  can  of  each 
other.  If  we  become  engaged,  we'll  announce  it,  get  mar- 
ried as  soon  as  possible  and  go  straight  out  to  America.  I've 
always  an  excuse  to  go  there  for  as  long  as  I  like ;  we  can 
come  back  when  it  suits  us  and  we  can  settle  down  to  do- 
mestic life  in  England.  It's  very  probable  that  you'll  meet 
Gaymer — I've  found  that  you  can't  avoid  meeting  people  in 
London,  however  much  you  may  want  to — ,  but  you'll  meet 
him  as  a  mere  acquaintance.  And,  Ivy,  the  only  thing  / 
know  of  him  is  that  I've  run  across  him  for  three  years  in 
other  people's  houses  and  have  never  invited  him  to  my  own, 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  133 

because  we  don't  seem  to  have  anything  in  common.  Isn't 
that  enough?" 

She  made  a  vague  movement  with  head  and  shoulders,  but 
he  could  see  that  she  was  hardly  listening  to  him. 

"I — can't  understand,"  she  faltered.  "You  must  despise 
me  so,  and  I've  nothing  to  give.  .  .  It's  like  a  dream." 

"I'm  asking  you  to  give  me  the  whole  of  yourself  for  all 
my  life.  .  .,"  Eric  answered.  "Now  I'm  going  to  paddle 
you  back." 

Though  there  had  been  no  rain  for  several  weeks,  a  strong 
stream  was  flowing,  and  he  punted  swiftly  to  Skindle's  lawn 
before  he  found  that  it  was  still  too  early  for  tea.  Shooting 
under  Maidenhead  Bridge,  he  crossed  to  the  Berkshire  side 
and  drifted  until  he  found  another  stretch  of  shady  bank 
under  which  they  could  moor  the  boat  and  smoke.  Ivy  beck- 
oned him  to  her  side  and  struck  a  match  for  his  cigarette. 

"Eric,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do  anything  for  you,"  she 
whispered.  "All  you  say  is  that  you  want  to  make  me  happy ! 
Long  before  I  met  you,  I'd  wanted  to  meet  you,  because  you 
wrote  such  wonderful  plays.  In  New  York.  .  .  If  any- 
body'd  told  me  I  was  going  to  marry  you,  I  should  have  burst 
out  laughing.  You  were  so  big  and  famous.  Coming  over 
on  the  boat  I  hardly  dared  speak  to  you.  I  can't  believe  it 
yet.  .  .  If  I  came  to  you  as  I  was  in  New  York — I  had 
something  to  give  then — ,  I  couldn't  believe  it.  But  I  never 
knew  you  then,  I  never  thought  that  any  man.  .  .  out  of  a 
book,  I  mean.  .  .  Oh,  I  can  never  do  enough,  I  can  never 
begin  to  repay  you !" 

Her  urgency  sent  a  glow  through  blood  which  Eric  once 
thought  would  never  again  be  warm.  He  wanted  to  see 
his  mother  and  Gaisford,  to  say  to  them:  "You  told  me  to 
make  one  more  effort,  and  I've  made  it.  You  told  me  to 
forget  myself.  Well,  I  have;  and  I've  won.  The  biggest 
effort.  .  .  and  the  biggest  victory.  .  .  ." 


134  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Love  must  be  dead  long  before  a  man  renders  a  bill,  Ivy," 
he  said. 

"I  want  to  pay  without  waiting  for  it !" 

"But  love  hasn't  been  born  yet." 

"Oh,  it  has,  Eric!" 

"When?" 

"When  you  promised.  .  .    You  know." 

Eric  laughed  and  took  her  hand : 

"When  you  thought  you  were  dreaming?  You're  dream- 
ing still,  Ivy.  That's  why  I  won't  let  you  decide  till  you've 
had  time  to  wake  up  and  think.  Cold,  grey,  early-morning 
thinking.  .  .  Perhaps  I'm  dreaming  too.  It  seems  so 
long.  .  .  And  you're  so  absurdly  young,  Ivy;  I'm  half  a 
generation  older.  When  I  saw  you  outside  Covent  Garden 
last  night,  I  felt  I'd  do  anything  to  make  you  less  miserable. 
Anything  in  the  world.  If  we  hadn't  been  in  a  public  street, 
I'd  have  taken  you  in  my  arms  and  kissed  you.  .  .  I  thought 
and  argued  all  the  evening;  I  wished  I  had  more  to  give 
you.  And  I  was  glad  for  my  own  selfish  sake  that  you 
were  unhappy.  I  wasn't  particularly  happy  myself;  and  I 
suddenly  saw  that,  if  I  could  give  you  everything  I  had,  if 
I  could  make  a  new  life,  a  happy  life  for  you,  Ivy,  I  should 
be  happy  myself.  You  see,  I've  not  been  thinking  of  you 
very  much,"  he  laughed. 

She  turned  quickly  and  put  her  face  up  to  him. 

"Kiss  me  now,  Eric,"  she  begged. 

"I  will,  when  you're  sure  you're  in  love  with  me, — if  you 
ever  are." 

"I  am !  You  know  I  am !  I'd  do  anything  for  you.  Isn't 
that  love?" 

"You  don't  yet  feel  that  I'm  essential  to  you.  That's 
why  you  need  time.  And,  if  you  knew  what  love  was,  you 
wouldn't  need  me  to  tell  you." 

Ivy  knitted  her  brows  and  looked  away. 

f'I  thought  I  did,"  she  murmured.    "I  thought  I  couldn't 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  135 

get  on  without  Johnnie.    That  was  why;  he  threatened  to 
go  away.  .  .  ." 

Eric  watched  her  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye : 
"And  you  find  you  can  get  on  without  him?" 
"I  had  to."    The  answer  came  without  hesitation,  but  she 
paused  at  once  to  consider  it.    Eric  wondered  whether  he 
had  heard  regret  in  her  voice. 

"If  he  came  to  see  you  to-night,"  Eric  propounded,  "if  he 
explained  away  whatever  happened  two  nights  ago  and  said 
that  he'd  always  meant  to  marry  you  and  wanted  to  marry 
you,  if  he  told  you  that  it  was  simply  a  question  of  money — " 
She  interrupted  with  a  vigorous  shake  of  the  head : 
"You  don't  understand!     He's  a  different  man." 
"He  was  the  man  you  fell  in  love  with,  Ivy." 
"No !    I'd  been  mistaken  in  him." 
"I  only  want  to  be  sure  that  you're  not  mistaken  now." 
"I'm  certain  now." 

There  was  no  profit  in  reminding  her  that  she  must  have 
felt  at  least  as  certain  before  she  surrendered  to  Gaymer. 
Eric  concentrated  his  attention  on  the  punt,  which  was  mak- 
ing slow  progress  against  the  wind  and  stream.  As  they 
came  alongside  the  lawn  of  the  Guards  Club,  he  saw  Ivy 
stiffen  and  look  away ;  there  was  no  apparent  reason  for  her 
abrupt  movement,  as  he  could  only  see  two  wounded  officers, 
playing  with  a  dog,  and  the  back  of  a  third,  who  was  making 
his  way  slowly  towards  the  club-house.  Evidently  she  did 
not  want  to  be  seen,  and  Eric  felt  a  twinge  of  misgiving 
when  he  reflected  how  little  he  knew  of  her.  Whenever  a 
man  married,  he  had  to  some  extent  to  inherit  the  relations 
and  friends,  the  family  bores  and  family  feuds  of  his  wife, 
with  a  greater  or  less  legacy  of  complications  and  indiscre- 
tions ;  all  that  he  knew  of  Ivy  and  her  world  could  be  written 
on  a  single  sheet  of  paper. 

Tea  was  a  silent  and  reflective  meal  for  both  of  them. 
It  was  only  when  they  had  driven  to  the  station  and  were 


136  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

walking  up  and  down  the  platform  that  he  found  a  reason 
for  her  embarrassment.  On  a  bench  by  the  head  of  the  stairs 
two  officers  were  playing  with  a  dog ;  between  them  sat  Gay- 
mer.  Now  as  before,  Ivy  saw  him  first,  but  this  time  he  saw 
her  and  bowed.  Eric  would  have  walked  on,  but  one  of  the 
wounded  officers  waved  a  crutch  and  hailed  him  by  name. 

"Hullo,  Pentyre!  I  haven't  seen  you  to  speak  to  since 
you  were  smashed  up,"  said  Eric. 

"No,  I  came  to  look  you  up  when  I  was  home  about  a 
year  and  a  half  ago,  but  they  told  me  you  were  in  America. 
I  caught  sight  of  you  in  the  distance  at  one  of  Sonia's 
parties.  .  .  This  is  a  memento  of  the  final  Hun  push. 
You  know  my  brother,  don't  you?  And  Gaymer?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  Eric  felt  his  heart  quickening  its  beat. 
There  was  an  adequate  nod,  Gaymer  rose  with  adequate 
alacrity  and  bowed  a  second  time  to  Ivy;  but  there  was  no 
glint  of  resentment  over  their  late  candid  meeting  in  Buck- 
ingham Gate,  no  flicker  of  curiosity  at  finding  Ivy  in  such 
company  and  no  embarrassment  in  meeting  her  at  all. 
"You  know  Lord  Pentyre,  don't  you?  Miss  Maitland,  Mr. 
Frank  Pentyre." 

"Oh,  please  don't  get  up,"  Ivy  begged,  as  Pentyre  and  his 
brother  reached  for  their  crutches. 

Eric  was  pleased  to  see  that  she  was  composed — as  much 
composed  as  he  had  been  when  he  found  himself  confronted 
with  George  and  Barbara  at  Covent  Garden;  he  also  re- 
membered his  own  emotions  that  night  and  led  her  away  as 
soon  as  he  could  make  an  opportunity. 

"Well  done!"  whispered  Eric,  pressing  Ivy's  arm. 

"Let's  go  further  in  front,"  she  answered.  "I  don't 
want  to  travel  up  with  them.  .  .  Eric !  I  could  have  killed 
him!  So  cool  and  collected.  .  .  He  knows  how  he's 
treated  me,  he  knows  he's  been  a  brute  and  a  liar — " 

"Steady  on,  Ivy,"  Eric  urged,  as  her  voice  became 
tremulous. 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  137 

"He  always  frightened  me,  because  nothing  seemed  to 
make  any  impression  on  him.  When  he  was  flying,  he  was 
inconceivably  brave;  people  have  told  me.  He'd  have  been 
given  the  V.  C.  again  and  again,  if  any  one  had  known. 
When  he  crashed,  it  would  have  killed  any  other  man,  but, 
though  he's  not  allowed  to  fly  any  more,  it's  made  no  other 
difference.  He  frightens  me,  because  I  can't  do  anything 
with  him.  That  night — he  let  me  do  all  the  talking.  .  . 
He's  a  brute." 

Eric  was  disquieted  that  Gaymer  should  have  seen  them 
together.  Most  men  would  be  glad  to  be  relieved  so 
promptly  of  their  responsibilities,  but  under  his  mask  of  in- 
difference Gaymer  was  capable  of  being  piqued  at  rinding 
himself  so  quickly  supplanted;  it  was  almost  an  invitation 
to  see  whether  he  could  reestablish  his  ascendancy,  a  chal- 
lenge to  his  idleness  and  vanity,  his  taste  for  mischief  and 
his  love  of  power. 

"Don't  have  anything  to  do  with  him,"  Eric  urged. 

"I  want  to  punish  him." 

"You  may  only  punish  yourself — and  me." 

A  taxi  had  been  ordered  to  wait  for  them  at  Paddington, 
and  they  escaped  with  relief  from  the  crowded  train  and 
drove  to  the  Cromwell  Road.  It  was  the  first  moment  of 
privacy  since  the  morning,  and  Ivy  caught  his  hand  and 
pressed  it  eagerly. 

"Eric,  I  want  to  cry!,"  she  gasped,  throwing  her  arms 
around  him  and  hiding  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  "I've 
wanted  to  all  day,  you've  been  so  wonderful!  What  can 
you  see  in  me  ?  I  will  try  to  repay  you,  though  I  never  can. 
Eric,  tell  me  it's  all  true  and  that  you're  not  playing  with 
me!" 

"I'm  no  good  at  jokes  of  that  kind."  She  had  slipped 
half  to  the  floor,  and  he  lifted  her  on  to  his  knees;  with  a 
gentle  pressure  she  drew  his  head  to  her  bosom  and  laid  a 


138  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

cold,  tear-stained  cheek  against  his.  "Ivy,  this  is  not  my 
idea  of  taking  a  month  to  think  calmly — " 

"I  don't  want  a  month!,"  she  cried,  tightening  the  grip 
of  her  arms  as  though  he  were  trying  to  escape. 

"Dear  child,  you  must  steady  yourself !  We  shall  be  at 
your  father's  house  in  a  minute,  and  you  can't  go  in  like 
this.  Dry  your  eyes,  Ivy  darling.  You  said  you  couldn't 
see  why  I  was  doing  this ;  don't  you  see  it's  because  I  want 
you?  But,  however  much  I  want  you,  I  can't  take  you  till 
I'm  sure  that  I  can  make  you  happy.  Wait  a  month — " 

"I  can't  wait  a  month!" 

It  was  on  his  lips  to  say  "a  week,"  but  he  stopped  himself 
in  time.  There  was  always  a  temptation  to  do  what  a 
woman  asked,  when  she  was  unhappy ;  but  the  one  way  to 
make  a  happy  woman  unhappy,  an  unhappy  woman  un- 
happier,  was  to  yield  to  her.  And  in  his  overnight  sanity, 
before  she  fired  his  blood,  he  had  promised  Gaisford  to  take 
time  before  risking  a  double  tragedy. 

"A  month,  Ivy,"  he  repeated.  "You  must  find  out  the 
sort  of  creature  you're  marrying." 

"I  shall  never  see  you,"  she  pouted. 

"You  shall  see  me  all  day  and  every  day,  if  you  like. 
My  secretary  went  for  a  holiday  on  Saturday.  Do  you 
remember  once  offering  yourself  for  the  position?  I  don't 
mind  now.  You  can  tell  your  aunt  and  say  you're  coming 
as  a  great  favour  to  me.  Then  we  shall  see  how  quickly  you 
get  tired  of  me.  .  .  Sit  still,  you  little  eel!" 

Ivy  had  slipped  on  to  the  floor  again  and  laid  her  head  on 
his  knees : 

"Tired  of  you.  .  .  Tired  of  you!  I  love  you.  And  I 
can  never  thank  you  or  be  worthy  of  you — "  She  stopped 
abruptly  and  sprang  up.  "Eric !  My  darling !" 

The  taxi  came  to  a  standstill,  and  he  helped  her  out.  As 
they  stood  decorously  on  the  steps  of  her  father's  house,  he 
looked  at  his  watch  and  said : 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  139 

"Eight  hours  ago  you  were  respectfully  calling  me  'Mr. 
Lane.' " 

He  saw  her  shivering;  and  her  eyes  filled  with  fear: 

"Eight  hours  ago — seven  and  a  half — I  prayed  that  our 
train  might  have  a  collision.  .  .  Is  her  ladyship  expecting 
us,  Henry?" 

Though  Ivy  had  only  once  described  her  home — and  then 
in  a  single  sentence — ,  one  glance  at  the  outside  and  another 
at  the  hall  enabled  Eric  to  deduce  the  character  of  the  occu- 
pants and  the  moral  atmosphere  of  the  house.  A  young 
footman  with  two  wound-stripes  on  his  livery  coat  took  his 
hat  and  asked  whether  he  would  like  to  wash  before  dinner. 
Ivy  had  already  run  upstairs  to  her  room,  and,  as  he  fol- 
lowed the  footman,  Eric  saw  massive  orderliness  on  every 
hand.  In  the  dim  hall  stood  a  heavy  oak  table,  flanked  by 
two  black  oak  chairs  and  surmounted  by  a  presentation  salver 
and  a  rack  with  leather-cased  Bradshaw,  Whittaker  and  Law 
List.  It  was  painfully  irregular,  he  felt,  that  doors,  in- 
tended by  the  genius  of  orderliness  to  be  shut,  should  have 
been  left  open;  but  he  was  fortunate  in  gaining  a  glimpse, 
through  one,  of  mahogany  side-board  and  massive  dining- 
table  set  with  eight  heavy  mahogany  chairs  and,  through 
another,  of  glass-fronted  fumed-oak  book-cases,  a  double 
writing-table  and  red  leather  couches.  The  furniture  seemed 
to  have  been  bought  in  sets  and  ordered  by  post ;  the  books — 
each  surely  an  accepted  classic,  though  Eric  could  see  noth- 
ing of  them  but  their  calf  backs — might  well  have  been 
supplied  by  measure.  The  house  was  lighted  by  gas,  and 
each  room  had  its  accredited  box  of  matches.  The  all-per- 
vading solemnity  filled  Eric  with  unseemly  thoughts  of  ir- 
responsible humour ;  he  longed  to  transpose  the  match-boxes 
marked  "HALL"  and  "COAT  ROOM"  and  to  see  what 
would  happen;  over  the  basin,  as  he  washed,  was  a  mirror 
and  shelf  with  two  hair-brushes,  one  branded  "J.  F.  M." 
and  the  other  "VISITORS."  Perhaps  Gaymer  had  been 


140  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

detected  changing  the  match-boxes ;  perhaps  that  was  why  he 
had  been  forbidden  the  house.  .  .  . 

Eric  checked  the  impulse  to  laugh,  as  soon  as  Gaymer 
came  into  his  thoughts.  It  was  easy  to  understand  why  a 
girl  had  been  so  desperately  anxious  to  escape  from  such  a 
house,  easy  to  imagine  how  she  would  welcome  any  one  who 
stretched  out  a  hand  to  help  her.  .  .  But  he  had  felt  no 
resentment  towards  Gaymer  for  two  hours ;  a  cad,  yes,  but 
a  cad  who  had  made  his  contribution  to  Eric's  own  destiny 
.  .  .  What  mattered  now  was  the  remembrance  of  Ivy's 
ecstatic  plunge  into  his  arms,  her  quavering  whisper  and 
trembling  mouth,  her  eyes  bright  with  unshed  tears,  a  kiss 
that  sent  her  soul  on  wings  to  his  lips.  He  frowned  at  his 
reflection  in  the  mirror  and  wondered  whether  the  judge 
would  suspect  anything.  .  .  . 

Ivy  was  not  yet  down  when  he  was  shewn  into  the  grim, 
shadow-filled  drawing-room,  but  her  mother  welcomed  him 
with  nervous  warmth.  As  she  turned  to  the  light,  Eric  saw 
a  thin,  small  woman  with  the  incongruous  remains  of  a  love- 
able,  baby  prettiness  under  her  lined  skin  and  her  air  of 
being  never  at  ease.  While  Mr.  Justice  Maitland  was  still 
an  unproved  junior,  her  friends  murmured  that  she  was 
throwing  away  both  herself  and  the  snug  dowry  which  came 
to  her  from  the  family  business  of  wholesale  chemists,  but 
the  initial  advantage  was  first  equalized  and  then  turned 
against  her ;  the  rearing  of  five  children  tied  her  to  the  house, 
and  her  speech  and  outlook  hinted  that  she  had  not  kept 
pace  with  her  husband's  social  advancement. 

"It's  very  good  of  you  to  let  me  invite  myself  like  this," 
said  Eric,  as  he  shook  hands  with  her.  "As  I  reminded  Ivy, 
you  were  kind  enough  to  ask  me  once  before,  when  I 
couldn't  come." 

"It's  a  great  honour,  I'm  sure.  And  I  expect  you're  ever 
so  much  run  after." 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  141 

The  judge  laid  aside  the  book  that  he  had  been  reading 
and  raised  himself  with  slow  solemnity  from  his  chair. 

"It's  not  our  first  meeting,  Mr.  Lane ;  you're  not  likely  to 
remember  that,"  he  said  with  austere  geniality.  "I  knew 
your  father  in  old  days  and  I  did  in  fact  meet  you  not  so 
many  months  after  your  arrival  in  this  troubled  world  of 
ours.  I  should  like  to  think  that  your  kindness  to  our 
daughter  means  that  you  are  not  going  to  drop  your  early 
friends  now  that  you  are  famous." 

The  hollow  click  which  his  eye-glasses,  after  glissading 
down  his  nose,  struck  out  of  his  shirt-front  was  for  a 
moment  disconcerting ;  but  the  bleak,  formidable  smile  which 
accompanied  the  words  apprised  Eric  that  his  host  was  ven- 
turing on  badinage.  He  hastened  to  smile  sympathetically, 
as  he  took  in  the  details  of  appearance  and  manner.  Sir 
James  Maitland  was  tall  and  spare,  with  a  long,  blue-grained 
jaw,  plentiful  grey  hair  and  light,  steady  eyes  set  deep  under 
bushy  brows.  His  clothes,  like  himself,  were  deliberately 
old-fashioned;  the  loose-cut  trousers  accentuated  his  thin, 
bent  legs,  and  a  low  double  collar  gave  him  the  hungry,  long 
neck  of  a  vulture.  Eric  was  prepared  to  find  him  pompous 
and  despotic  in  his  grave  moments  and  tedious  in  all;  he 
felt  like  a  reveller  who  had  strayed  inadvertently  into  a 
grave-yard  where  the  distant  fragrance  and  music  that  he 
had  left  were  swallowed  in  chilling  mustiness  and  silence. 
If  any  one  for  a  moment  ceased  talking  in  that  house,  the 
brooding  spirit  of  melancholy  would  claim  them  all  in  forfeit. 

"I  didn't  meet  Ivy  till  just  before  I  left  America,"  he 
said.  "I  wish  I'd  seen  more  of  her." 

"I  gather  you  gave  her,  if  I  may  say  so,  very  sound  advice, 
very  sound,"  said  the  judge.  "She  had  heard  the  same  sort 
of  thing  from  her  parents  more  than  once,  but  it  is  the 
modern  fashion  to  disregard  what  parents  say.  I've  watched 
the  growth  of  liberty  among  the  girls  of  the  present  day," 
he  went  on,  as  though  he  were  delivering  a  considered 


142  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

judgement  and  defying  other  courts  to  reverse  it  on  appeaf, 
"and  I  can't  find  a  single  good  thing  to  be  said  for  it;  not  a 
single  good  thing." 

"Oh,  /  can!,"  Eric  answered.  "A  generation  ago  I'm 
sure  I  shouldn't  have  been  allowed  to  take  Ivy  on  the  river 
alone,  and  we  should  both  have  missed  a  very  delightful  day. 
At  least,  7  enjoyed  it ;  I  mustn't  speak  for  her." 

"I'm  sure  she,  too.  .  ."  Lady  Maitland  turned,  as  the 
door  opened.  "Well,  my  dear,  how  did  you  get  on  ?" 

Ivy  looked  past  her  to  Eric  and  then  turned  to  her  mother 
with  shining  eyes : 

"It  was  wonderful!  Mr.  Lane,  you're  the  perfect  host, 
you  know." 

Eric  bowed,  noting  from  her  form  of  address  that  she  did 
not  yet  propose  to  take  her  parents  into  her  confidence. 
Lady  Maitland  was  looking  closely  at  her,  and  he  wondered 
what  inference  was  being  drawn  from  the  tell-tale,  starry 
brightness  of  the  eyes.  Magic  and  poetry  were  not  dead  so 
long  as  a  man  could  charm  that  soft  diamond  sheen  from  a 
girl's  eyes.  .  .  He  discovered  that  the  judge  was  asking 
him  a  question — and  wondered  what  inference  would  be 
drawn  from  his  own  tell-tale  absence  of  mind.  .  .  . 

"It  was  such  a  glorious  day,  it  couldn't  help  being  suc- 
cessful," he  said  hastily.  "We  caught  the  eleven  o'clock  at 
Paddington  and  went  to  Maidenhead.  .  .  ." 

He  was  still  describing  their  day,  when  Ivy's  two  sisters 
entered  with  their  husbands.  Eric  did  not  hear  much  of 
Lady  Maitland's  mumbled  introduction,  but  one  woman  ap- 
peared to  be  Rose  and  the  other  Myrtle.  Their  mother  evi- 
dently inclined  towards  horticultural  prettiness;  and  the 
judge  had  probably  been  very  scornful  when  the  names  were 
chosen.  Scorn,  indeed,  seemed  his  fixed  attitude  of  mind 
towards  his  family;  the  sons-in-law  forgot  that  they  were 
promising  young  chancery  barristers  and  were  only  careful 
to  avoid  being  committed  for  contempt  of  court.  One  had 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  143 

travelled  from  Wimbledon,  the  other  from  Beaconsfield ; 
they  came  every  week  like  fascinated  rabbits.  .  .  If  it  had 
not  been  the  middle  of  the  Cambridge  term,  Ivy's  two  broth- 
ers would  have  completed  the  ceremonial,  unchanging  circle 
.  .  .  The  elder  sisters  had  Ivy's  good  looks  without  her  re- 
belliousness of  spirit ;  in  any  massed  attack  against  their 
parents  they  would  first  hesitate  and  then  surrender;  mar- 
riage was  to  them  primarily  an  escape  from  the  necessity  of 
making  massed  attacks  on  any  one ;  they  were  their  mother's 
daughters.  .  .  . 

Supper  was  announced;  and  Eric  found  himself  between 
the  elder  sister,  who  never  spoke,  and  Lady  Maitland,  who 
only  stopped  speaking  when  the  judge  drowned  her  voice. 
As  wine  followed  wine  and  course  followed  course,  Eric  felt 
that  rules  could  be  framed  for  the  legal  profession,  binding 
its  private  life  as  straitly  as  the  inhibitions  of  caste-law.  At 
one  remove  he  had  watched  it  in  the  days  when  he  shared 
chambers  in  Pump  Court  with  Jack  Waring  and  observed 
the  grub  of  the  pupil-room,  who  lunched  with  fellow-grubs 
in  Hall,  developing  through  the  chrysalis  stage  of  the  newly- 
called  junior  irtto  the  practising  barrister  who  first  mar- 
shalled a  judge  and  was  later  bidden  by  younger  mar- 
shals to  dine  with  the  judge  in  his  lodgings.  From  his 
friend's  description  Eric  gathered  that  most  barristers  and 
all  judges  lived  in  the  same  kind  of  house,  married  the  same 
kind  of  wife  and  ate  the  same  food.  At  the  end  of  dinner 
they  told  the  same  legal  anecdotes  before  suggesting  bridge. 
(Mr.  Justice  Maitland  probably  disapproved  of  bridge  on 
Sundays,  but  he  had  been  playing  golf  at  Walton  Heath — 
with  other  judges.  .  .  .) 

Eric  sipped  a  matchless  sherry  and  sympathized  with 
Lady  Maitland  over  her  difficulties  in  obtaining  butter  during 
the  war.  (A  small  farmer  who  lived  near  her  old  home  in 
Hampshire  had  been  willing  to  supply  an  unlimited  quantity, 
but  the  judge  felt  that  it  was  bad  citizenship  to  exceed  their 


144  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

ration  by  an  ounce.)  Ivy  was  watching  them  silently,  asking 
him  with  her  eyes  whether  he  now  wondered  why  she  had 
run  away  from  home;  no  vice  could  be  imputed  to  her 
parents,  but  they  were  solidly  uncongenial,  and  in  his  turn 
Eric  privately  debated  the  possibility  of  being  able  to  break 
away  altogether  from  the  Cromwell  Road  after  marriage. 
To  rescue  her  from  the  judge  was  no  less  important  than 
to  rescue  her  from  Gaymer.  It  would  be  intolerable,  if  he 
were  expected  to  dine  there  regularly;  fortunately,  he  was 
at  present  being  treated  with  extravagant  deference,  which 
shewed  that  a  reputation  still  had  its  value ;  and,  for  a  man, 
economic  freedom  consisted  in  being  able  to  patronize  his 
father-in-law.  .  .  . 

Strong  mock-turtle  soup  and  sherry;  cold  salmon  and 
champagne  that  was  drinkable — and  no  more — (the  judge 
had  brought  it  out  in  Eric's  honour,  and  it  had  been  kept 
long  enough  to  lose  its  quality) ;  cold  roast  beef,  gooseberry 
tart  and  cheese,  followed  by  a  bottle  of  '84  Dow ;  it  was  a 
plain,  substantial  meal,  spoiled  by  Lady  Maitland's  unceasing 
efforts  to  make  her  guest  overeat  himself  and  by  his  own 
need  to  talk  in  three  keys  at  once.  The  judge  asked  what 
the  next  play  was  to  be  and  gave  himself  a  cue  for  recalling 
and  describing  the  London  stage  as  he  had  known  it  in  his 
youth  (from  the  age  of  thirty  he  had  been  too  busy  to  spare 
time  for  the  theatre,  and  nowadays — with  certain  illustrious 
exceptions  which  he  did  not  need  to  specify — there  were  no 
plays  worth  seeing).  Lady  Maitland  was  still  troubled  by 
the  butter  shortage  and  the  difficulties  of  providing  for  a  big 
house;  it  was  a  pain  of  spirit,  which  wrung  from  her  a 
moan  whenever  she  could  make  it  heard;  and,  though  the 
judge  dominated  the  conversation  with  his  cues  and  speeches, 
she  remained  resolutely  undefeated  with  an  inexhaustible 
store  of  food-news  which  she  poked  through  the  interstices 
of  her  husband's  periods. 

"I  was  asked  to  be  chairman  of  a  committee  on  dramatic 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  145 

censorship,"  he  explained.  "That's  how  I  come  to  be  in- 
terested in  the  subject." 

"You  must  have  some  more  gooseberries,"  insisted  Lady 
Maitland  swiftly,  as  he  paused.  "They're  from  our  own 
garden  in  Norfolk.  Fruit  always  seems  so  much  nicer  when 
you've  grown  it  yourself,  don't  you  think?  ...  I  was  tell- 
ing you  about  that  salmon.  The  price — but  prices  don't 
mean  anything  to  a  bachelor,  I'm  sure;  you  just  order  what 
you  fancy,  and,  if  it's  not  in  season,  so  much  the  worse  for 
you."  She  laughed  at  her  own  audacity.  "Well,  the  reason 
why  salmon  is  so  disgracefully  dear  is  that  ever  so  much  has 
been  deliberately  allowed  to  go  bad  so  as  to  force  up  the 
price  of  the  rest.  I  always  think  it's  so  wicked  to  waste 
food,  don't  you?  With  so  much  want  about.  The  people 
with  small  fixed  incomes — I'm  always  so  sorry  for  them. 
I  had  a  case  the  other  day,  the  woman  who  used  to  teach  my 
girls  music — " 

"I'm  sure  Mr.  Lane  doesn't  want  to  hear  about  her"  in- 
terposed Ivy  with  more  solicitude  for  Eric  than  civility  to  her 
mother.  "Father,  Mr.  Lane's  secretary  has  gone  away  for 
a  holiday,  and  I'm  going  in  her  place." 

The  two  sisters  looked  up  with  dawning  interest;  Lady 
Maitland  glanced  covertly  at  Eric;  the  judge  nodded  slowly 
to  give  himself  time  to  think.  Ivy  had  thrown  out  the  an- 
nouncement without  inviting  his  approval  or  opinion.  If 
she  wanted  either,  it  was  not  fair  to  speak  in  front  of  Eric, 
but  he  had  not  adjusted  himself  to  the  new  conditions  of 
her  emancipation.  .  .  . 

"How  does  that  work  in  with  Connie's  arrangements?," 
asked  Lady  Maitland,  when  her  husband's  silence  began  to 
look  like  discourtesy  to  Eric. 

"Oh,  she  can  get  on  without  me  for  a  month,"  Ivy 
answered  easily.  "Don't  you  think  it  will  be  fun?" 

"What  does  Mr.  Lane  say?" 


146  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Eric  wished  that  the  subject  had  not  been  introduced,  if 
it  brought  so  much  latent  antagonism  to  the  surface. 

"She  will  be  of  very  great  assistance  to  me,  if  you'll  let 
her  come,"  he  answered. 

The  judge  reached  out  eagerly  to  take  up  the  challenge : 

"My  dear  Lane,  we  don't  control  Ivy's  movements." 

"But  I  shouldn't  dream  of  asking  her  to  come  against 
your  wishes.  We  discussed  this  in  America,  before  I  en- 
gaged my  present  secretary." 

Lady  Maitland  was  still  visibly  fluttered  by  finding  Eric 
at  her  table  and  discovering  him  to  be  Ivy's  intimate  friend. 
The  wives  of  barristers  and  judges  lived  to  as  rigid  a  pat- 
tern as  that  of  their  husbands;  and  it  was  part  of  their 
guild-law  to  dislike  the  idea  of  any  girl's  wandering  off  in 
the  morning  and  returning  at  night  without  giving  any  ac- 
count of  herself  or  having  any  one  to  look  after  her.  Mr. 
Lane,  indeed,  had  a  big  enough  position  of  his  own  to  make 
him  careful  of  his  reputation ;  he  seemed  steady  and  sensible, 
agreeing  with  almost  everything  that  she  had  said.  .  .  . 

The  judge  felt  that  he  had  been  trapped.  It  was  no 
longer  possible  to  launch  side-long  reproaches  at  Ivy,  when 
the  responsibility  of  the  decision  was  put  into  his  hands.  As 
he  waited  for  their  decision,  Eric  was  able  to  break  free  for 
a  moment  from  their  fog  of  timid  conventionality  and  ask 
himself  what  they  would  think  if  they  ever  guessed  why  he 
was  there  at  that  moment. 

"Well,  that's  a  very  proper  sentiment,"  said  the  judge  at 
length,  "very  proper.  I'm  glad  to  find  one  person  in  the 
house  who  thinks  that  the  wishes  of  parents  should  be  con- 
sulted; I'm  glad  that  Ivy  should  see  that  this  is  not  merely 
senile  perversity  or  malice.  .  .  I'm  sure  we  can  trust  her 
to  you,  Lane.  If  you  could  discover  what  we've  done  to 
make  life  insupportable  to  her  at  home,"  he  added  causti- 
cally, "we  shall  be  glad  of  enlightenment." 

Eric  laughed,  because  it  saved  an  answer ;  but  Rose  and 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  147 

Myrtle  were  sitting  upright  and  tense  in  scared  anticipation 
of  a  scene,  while  their  husbands  ransacked  void  brains  for 
an  attractive  subject  of  conversation.  Lady  Maitland 
was  gamely  casting  back  to  the  gross  tonnage  of  bully-beef 
wantonly  wasted  by  the  expeditionary  force  in  the  first  six 
months  of  the  war;  but  their  prompt  and  practised  con- 
trivance only  strengthened  his  feeling  that  he  had  never 
seen  a  house  in  which  the  older  generation  succeeded  less 
in  understanding  and  sympathizing  with  the  aspirations,  the 
enthusiasms,  even  the  follies  of  the  young.  He  was  sorry 
for  Ivy  and  her  brothers  and  sisters,  sorry  for  the  common, 
faded,  pretty  mother;  but  he  was  also  sorry  for  the  blue- 
jawed  judge,  who  was  a  more  interesting  dramatic  type, 
ruling  like  a  patriarch  until  dumb  obedience  changed  without 
warning,  so  far  as  he  could  see,  to  flaming  revolt.  A  bigger 
man  would  not  feel  humiliated  that  his  daughter  had  trans- 
ferred herself  to  a  house  two  miles  away  in  the  same  city, 
because  life  at  home  rawed  her  nerves ;  the  judge  only  knew 
that  this  thing  had  been  done,  and  he  suspected  that  the  whole 
legal  world  of  South  Kensington  was  discussing  it  with 
malicious  interest. 

At  the  end  of  dinner,  the  two  sisters  whispered  to  their 
husbands  about  trains  and  slipped  away  with  a  murmured 
good-night.  Left  with  an  untried  audience,  the  judge  re- 
turned freshly  to  the  charge.  While  he  was  at  the  bar, 
Maitland  had  won  grudging  tributes  to  the  range  and  depth 
of  his  knowledge;  in  his  facts,  if  not  in  his  law,  he  im- 
provized  the  little  that  he  did  not  know,  and  the  habit  had 
become  permanent  in  his  conversation.  Before  they  had 
finished  discussing  the  rival  degrees  of  hard  work  demanded 
of  literature  and  the  bar,  Eric  had  detached  himself  from 
the  plans  of  personal  interest  and  fatigue  and  was  surveying 
his  host  as  a  study  to  be  committed  to  a  certain  closely 
guarded  note-book  in  his  safe  at  home.  The  judge  con- 
versed methodically:  he  would  introduce  his  subject  with  a 


148  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

flourish  like  a  self-conscious  proprietor  flinging  open  the 
door  of  a  room  and  asking  his  visitors  what  they  thought  of 
that;  after  listening  to  half  the  answer,  he  would  raise  one 
hand,  beg  leave  to  interrupt  and  develop  his  theme  unspar- 
ingly, only  stopping  when  the  chance  of  asking  another 
question  promised  him  the  opportunity  of  delivering  another 
discourse. 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  be  going  in  a  moment,"  said 
Eric,  as  the  judge  offered  him  a  second  cigar.  "I  have  work 
to  do  before  I  go  to  bed." 

"Well,  I'm  very  glad  to  have  had  this  talk.  You'll  come 
upstairs  ?"  He  led  the  way  to  the  door  and  paused  with  his 
fingers  on  the  handle.  "Do  you  know  a  friend  of  Ivy's 
called  Gaymer?" 

"I've  met  him  a  certain  number  of  times,"  Eric  answered 
easily  enough. 

"What  d'you  think  of  him?" 

"Oh,  I  hardly  like  to  give  an  opinion  of  a  man  I  know  so 
little." 

The  judge  laughed  sombrely: 

"A  good  answer !  You're  by  no  means  as  young  and 
simple  as  you  look,  Lane.  Well,  the  reason  I  asked  is  this : 
I'm  making  you  personally  responsible  for  Ivy  and,  if 
young  Gaymer  comes  round  after  her,  I  shall  be  obliged  if 
you'll  send  him  about  his  business.  Half  the  nonsense  in 
Ivy's  head  comes  from  him.  They  struck  up  a  very  warm 
intimacy — quite  unknown  to  her  mother  and  me,  of  course ! 
that's  the  modern  method;  I  only  heard  of  it  from  people 
who  were  seeing  them  about  together.  So  I  got  my  gentle- 
man to  honour  me  with  his  company  at  dinner ;  and  I  put  it 
to  him — what  was  it  all  about?  He  pretended  he  didn't 
understand,  but  I  wouldn't  have  any  of  that.  'I'll  thank 
.you,'  I  told  him,  'not  to  behave  in  such  a  way  as  to  cause 
people  to  gossip  about  my  daughter.  I  daresay  you  think 
I'm  old-fashioned,'  I  said.  'You  may  think  I'm  wrong,' 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  149 

I  said.  'You  may  tell  me  that  you're  only  doing  what 
thousands  of  other  men  do ;  all  I  say  is,  I  was  brought  up  in 
a  different  school.'  And  I  may  tell  you,  Lane,  that  it  was 
a  school  in  which  young  men  had  manners  flogged  into 
them.  My  gentleman  stared  at  me  very  saucily  and  said: 
'Are  you  asking  me  my  "intentions"?  Nineteen-nineteen ! 
Is  that  still  done?  I've  been  away  at  the  war  so  long  that 
I've  lost  touch  with  that  sort  of  thing.'  Well,  then  I  rang 
for  his  coat  and  hat.  I've  not  seen  him  since;  but  that  was 
quite  enough  to  make  Ivy  take  his  side,  and  I've  never  had 
any  doubt  that  he  put  into  her  head  the  idea  of  going  off  and 
living  her  own  life.  'Living  her  own  life'!  How  tired  I 
am  of  that  phrase!  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  encourage  people  to  interrupt  me  when  I'm 
working,  jttdge,"  Eric  reassured  him. 

The  double  doors  of  the  drawing-room  were  open,  and, 
as  his  head  came  on  a  level  with  the  landing,  Eric  saw  Ivy 
sitting  on  a  cushion  at  her  mother's  feet  and  talking  with 
listless  unconcern.  She  had  put  on  her  hat,  and  her  gloves 
were  lying  across  her  knees.  Perhaps  she  was  only  tired 
after  her  long  day  in  the  open  air,  perhaps  she  was  goaded 
beyond  bearing  by  her  father's  pin-pricks;  or  perhaps  she 
had  been  pleading  fatigue  so  that  he  might  take  her  away 
and  be  alone  with  her.  .  .  As  they  came  into  the  room,  her 
unconcern  dropped  from  her,  and  she  turned  with  the  same 
sheen  of  adoration  in  her  eyes.  He  prayed  that  the  judge 
might  have  missed  it;  he  ought  not  to  have  been  expecting 
it,  for  they  had  been  talking  gravely  and  responsibly  as 
fathers  of  families,  and  Eric  had  been  commissioned  to  pro- 
tect Ivy  from  undesirable  acquaintances.  .  .  Lady  Mait- 
land  had  turned  at  the  same  moment,  so  she  could  not  have 
seen  the  glance ;  but,  unless  she  were  blind,  she  must  notice 
that  Ivy  was  still  transfigured.  .  .  . 

"I  was  just  coming  down  to  say  good-bye!     Mr.  Lane, 


150  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

what  time  do  I  come  to  you  to-morrow?  If  it's  early,  I 
must  go  to  bed  now." 

"I  suppose  nine  o'clock's  out  of  the  question?,"  Eric 
hazarded. 

"I  can  manage  that." 

"Then  won't  you  let  me  see  you  home?  I  was  telling 
your  father  that  I'd  work  to  finish.  Lady  Maitland,  will 
you  think  me  very  rude  if  I  run  away?  It's  so  kind  of  you 
to  let  me  come." 

"We  were  honoured  to  have  you,  I'm  sure,"  Lady  Mait- 
land answered.  "And  now  that  you  have  found  your  way 
here—" 

"That's  too  charming,"  he  interrupted  before  she  could 
finish  the  dreaded  sentence. 

The  judge  said  good-night  warmly  to  his  guest  and  less 
warmly  to  his  daughter,  adding,  before  the  doors  were 
securely  closed,  that  Lane  seemed  a  sensible,  steady,  decent 
young  fellow. 

Ivy  offered  smiling  congratulations. 

"Eric,  I  thought  you  were  never  coming!,"  she  whispered. 
"My  dear,  you  were  wonderful!  Mother's  in  love  with 
you !  And  you  could  hear  what  a  success  you'd  been  with 
father.  Was  it  a  very  terrible  evening?  I  didn't  notice 
anything  except  that  you  were  there;  I  couldn't  see  any 
one  else.  I  suppose  father  was  disapproving  of  me,  as 
usual.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  speaking,  as  the  front  door  was  opened  for 
them. 

"We  must  get  things  right  with  your  people  somehow," 
said  Eric  reflectively.  "I  think  it's  awful  when  children 
don't  get  on  well  with  their  parents." 

"But,  my  dear,  is  it  my  fault  ?  I  don't  believe  father  ever 
cared  for  me  much,  but  he  really  hates  me  now." 

"If  he  does,  it's  because  he  was  very  fond  of  you  before. . . 
Nature's  substitute.  .  ,  ." 


A  DOUBLE  RESCUE  151 

Ivy  slipped  her  arm  through  his  and  walked  for  some 
moments  in  silence.  A  taxi  was  on  the  rank  by  Gloucester 
Road  Station,  and  they  got  into  it. 

"There's  only  one  substitute  for  love,"  she  whispered. 
"A  greater  love.  .  .  Isn't  that  true  ?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"We'll  make  it  so." 

"//,  Ivy.     Remember  that  for  a  month — " 

"A  month!  But  it'll  be  just  the  same.  I  shall  be  with 
you  every  day.  'I  suppose  nine  o'clock's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion/ "  she  mimicked.  "I'll  come  at  eight  or  seven  or  six. 
And  stay  till  mid-night." 

"And  a  nice  character  I  should  get  from  your  father. 
He's  made  me  responsible  for  you,  Ivy.  .  .  Eaton  Place. 
And  you  have  been  happy?" 

"Oh,  Eric,  I  wish  it  wasn't  over !     Happy !" 

Eric  laughed  and  helped  her  out  of  the  taxi.  Her  happi- 
ness was  so  radiant  that  he  felt  it  could  not  last.  As  he 
drove  away  he  wondered  whether  she  had  been  as  radiant 
with  Gaymer.  Such  intensity  of  passion  was  frightening; 
love  that  grew  from  seed  to  flower  and  fruit  in  a  single  day 
might  die  in  a  single  night.  .  .  . 

Ivy  stood  on  the  doorstep  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  Eric 
stared  long  at  an  unlighted  cigarette  and  then  searched  his 
pockets  for  a  match.  He  was  bewildered  and  a  little  nervous 
and  utterly  exhausted.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

HALF-HONEYMOON 

".  .  .  And  by  and  by  my  Soul  return'd  to  me, 
And  answer'd  'I  Myself  am  Heav'n  and  Hell: 
Heav'n  but  the  Vision  of  fulfill'd  Desire, 
And  Hell  the  Shadow  from  a  Soul  on  fire.  .  ." 
EDWARD  FITZGERALD:    "RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM." 

A  FORTNIGHT  before  Whitsuntide  Lord  Pentyre  engaged  a 
taxi  for  the  day  and  drove  round  London,  belatedly  as- 
sembling a  house-party  for  Croxton  Hall. 

"Mothers  aren't  fit  to  be  trusted!,"  he  explained  queru- 
lously to  Deganway,  when  they  met  in  the  smoking-room  of 
the  County  Club.  "I  suppose  it's  the  war.  They've  got 
utterly  out  of  hand.  .  .  And  you  could  always  rely  on  mine 
to  collect  the  worst -assorted  cranks,  crooks  and  bores  in  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Buckinghamshire.  I  vaguely  left 
things  to  her.  .  .  You  must  help  me  out,  Gerry ;  we'll  make 
up  a  party  of  our  own  and  freeze  out  the  others." 

Deganway  called  for  a  draft  list  of  the  guests  before 
committing  himself. 

"General  Sir  Maurice  Maitland,"  he  read,  letting  fall  his 
eye-glass  in  blank  dismay.  "Oh,  my  dear,  he'll  want  to  talk 
to  me  about  the  war ;  no  one  can  make  him  understand  that 
it's  over.  .  .  Lady  Maitland.  .  .  She  always  wants  to 
know  what  I'm  going  to  do  about  Russia  and  will  make  me 
responsible  for  the  peace  conference.  .  .  Ivy.  .  .  Oh, 
that's  the  niece ;  Eric  Lane  has  a  wild  passion  for  her — " 

"I  saw  him  at  Maidenhead  with  her  last  Sunday.  Happy 
thought !  He  shall  come  and  talk  to  her.  .  .  I  want  one  or 
two  bright  souls  who'll  talk  to  me  and  perhaps  take  a  hand 

152 


HALF-HONEYMOON  153 

in  a  little  game  of  poker.  You,  me,  Babs  Oakleigh,  Sonia 
O'Rane,  my  young  brother, — Amy  Lor  ing  doesn't  play — 
the  Pinto  de  Vasconcellos.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Bobbie,  can  we  bear  them  for  the  whole  of  a  long 
week-end?,"  asked  Deganway  with  misgiving.  "Madame  is 
mortally  offended  with  any  man  who  doesn't  make  love  to 
her,  and  the  husband  with  any  man  who  does.  I  should  hate 
to  be  knifed  or  garotted  or  whatever  they  do  in  Brazil  or 
wherever  they  come  from." 

"I  don't  know  them.  Margaret  Poynter  wished  them  on 
to  my  mother." 

"I  don't  know  them  either.  I  dine  with  them,  and  that's 
surely  enough.  .  .  Well,  I'll  see  you  through  with  them, 
if  you'll  do  the  same  for  me  another  time." 

Pentyre  reached  for  his  crutches  and  returned  to  his  taxi. 
After  drawing  blank  at  the  Eclectic  Club,  he  found  John 
Carstairs  at  Male's  and  Eric  at  the  Thespian.  The  draft  list 
was  again  submitted  for  approval,  with  Ivy's  name  promi- 
nently exposed  as  a  bait;  and,  with  an  effort  of  concentra- 
tion, Eric  addressed  himself  to  the  invitation.  For  ten  days 
he  had  been  too  much  preoccupied  to  think  of  a  world  out- 
side Eaton  Place  and  Ryder  Street;  week-end  parties  were 
no  doubt  being  made  up ;  strange,  half -forgotten  voices  sum- 
moned him  to  dine  and  go  to  the  opera,  but  he  lived  and 
worked  in  a  dream  bounded  by  unconsciousness  from  the 
moment  when  Ivy  left  him  at  night  till  the  moment  when  she 
reappeared  next  day. 

"Most  of  the  party  will  be  coming  on  Friday  afternoon," 
Pentyre  explained. 

"Where  to?,"  asked  Eric. 

"Croxton,  of  course,  you  idiot !  Do  pay  a  little  attention ! 
You  needn't  pretend  you've  never  been  there.  Well,  what 
about  it?" 

Eric  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  list  and,  on  reading  it 


154  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

again,  discovered  that  he  had  read  it  the  first  time  without 
taking  in  any  of  the  names. 

"I  should  love  to  come,"  he  answered  absently. 

Pentyre  limped  away  in  search  of  new  victims,  leaving 
Eric  to  dine  with  Dr.  Gaisford.  An  accomplice  is  entitled 
to  full  confidence,  and  Eric  had  invited  the  doctor  to  receive 
a  report  on  the  Maidenhead  expedition ;  when  Pentyre  burst 
disturbingly  in  on  his  reverie,  he  was  wondering  how  much 
to  tell.  A  week  had  passed  since  Ivy  entered  upon  her 
duties  as  secretary ;  on  the  first  day  she  walked  sedately  into 
the  library,  as  nine  o'clock  was  striking,  then  listened  for  the 
door  to  close  behind  her  and  fluttered  into  his  arms. 

"I  came  so  early  that  I  had  to  wait  outside  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,"  she  said,  putting  up  her  face  to  be  kissed. 
"How  are  you,  Eric?" 

"Hardly  awake  yet,"  he  answered.  "I  usually  dictate 
from  my  bed,  at  this  hour,  but  I  didn't  want  to  embarrass 
you,  so  I'm  dressed  long  before  my  time." 

"But  what  a  shame!  .  .  .  Won't  you  kiss  me  good- 
morning,  Eric?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  laughed.  A  half  honeymoon  was 
too  dangerous  an  experiment  with  a  girl  who  was  supposed 
to  be  considering  dispassionately  whether  she  wanted  to 
marry  him.  And,  if  he  expected  to  leave  England  in  six 
or  eight  weeks'  time,  there  was  abundant  work  to  be  done 
first. 

"I  shall  probably  call  you  'Miss  Maitland'  from  nine  till 
six,"  he  told  her.  "Do  you  like  working  with  or  without  a 
hat?  I'll  shew  you  where  I  keep  my  typewriter  and  sta- 
tionery and  files  and  things ;  and  then  I  can  give  you  enough 
letters  to  keep  you  occupied  till  lunch-time." 

He  was  leading  the  way  to  the  door,  when  Ivy  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  be  so  horribly  efficient  for  five  minutes,"  she 
begged.  "I  haven't  seen  you  since  last  night,  Eric !  Such  a 


HALF-HONEYMOON  155 

long  time!  And  I  want  to  be  shewn  your  flat.  I  was  too 
miserable  to  see  anything  when  I  was  here  before." 

In  a  day  and  a  night  she  had  recovered  her  self-respect 
and  composure;  she  had  slept  well,  and  the  shadows  under 
her  eyes  had  faded.  Eric  had  not  the  heart  to  chill  her 
new-found  happiness. 

"Five  minutes,  then,"  he  conceded.  "But  we  shall  have 
to  work  twice  as  fast  afterwards.  Did  your  aunt  raise  any 
objection  to  your  coming  here?" 

"Oh,  she  was  delighted.  .  .  Eric,  you  have  got  the  love- 
liest rooms.  We  shall  live  here,  of  course;  I  couldn't  bear 
to  go  anywhere  else." 

"If,"  he  warned  her. 

"When"  she  amended.  "Eric,  why  d'you  insist  on  wait- 
ing a  month?  D'you  want  to  see  if  you'll  get  tired  of  me?" 

"No,  I  just  want  to  be  sure  that  you  know  your  own  mind. 
Sudden  conversions  are  always  dangerous.  And  you're  too 
precious  to  me  to  be  married  on  a  snap  division.  So  for  a 
month  we  won't  say  or  do  anything  that  ties  your  hands  in 
any  way.  I'm  not  giving  a  hint  to  any  one,  even  my  own 
people ;  I'm  not  proposing  to  make  any  allusion  to  you." 

Before  three  days  had  passed  Eric  found  that  it  was 
easier  to  take  this  resolution  than  to  live  up  to  it.  Amy 
Loring  stopped  him  in  the  street  to  say: 

"I  hear  the  little  Maitland  girl  is  working  for  you  now. 
I'm  so  glad." 

"My  secretary's  gone  for  a  holiday,"  he  answered,  un- 
consciously putting  himself  on  his  guard.  "Ivy  kindly  con- 
sented to  come  in  her  place  for  a  few  weeks." 

"I  was  told  you'd  taken  her  on  permanently." 

"Oh,  no!     Who  did  you  hear  that  from?" 

"Johnnie  Gaymer.  He  seems  to  have  transferred  his 
affections  to  another  quarter.  I  won't  mention  names,  but 
a  woman — she's  rather  a  friend  of  mine;  at  least,  her  hus- 
band is;  and,  while -he's  away,  she's  been  getting  much  too 


156  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

intimate  with  Johnnie — I  talked  to  her.  .  .  And  then  I 
talked  to  him.  Whether  it  ever  does  any  good  I  don't  know, 
but  I  did  tell  him  very  frankly  to  keep  his  hands  off  other 
people's  property.  And,  while  I  was  on  the  subject,  I  told 
him  to  leave  this  Maitland  child  alone.  It  was  then  that  he 
told  me  she'd  gone  to  you." 

"His  intelligence  department  is  good,"  Eric  commented. 
"She  only  came  to  me  two  days  ago." 

"I  expect  Johnnie  feels  that  his  nose  is  a  little  out  of 
joint." 

Eric  smiled,  but  he  was  disquieted;  though  he  saw  and 
heard  nothing  of  Gaymer,  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  him ; 
he  had  been  brooding  uneasily  when  Pentyre  came  into  the 
dub ;  he  continued  to  worry  himself  with  vague  doubts  as  he 
waited  for  Gaisford. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  may  say  we're  on  probation,"  Eric 
announced,  when  the  doctor  arrived  for  dinner.  "I  put  the 
whole  case  before  the  girl,  the  day  after  our  talk,  and  we're 
taking  a  month  to  see  how  we  get  on  before  she  makes  her 
final  decision.  I  hope  that  may  be  accounted  to  me  for 
prudence.  By  the  way,  she's  working  for  me  as  secretary 
for  a  few  weeks." 

"So  I  heard." 

"Damnation !" 

The  doctor  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  know,  Eric,  you're  as  much  of  an  ostrich  as  you've 
always  been,"  he  said.  "Either  credit  people  with  the 
faculty  of  sight,  or  be  philosophical  and  say  you  don't  care 
what  other  people  think." 

"I  don't  care, —  but  it's  annoying,"  said  Eric  inconse- 
quently.  "How  did  you  hear?" 

"From  Barbara  Oakleigh." 

Eric  was  startled,  and  his  expression  and  tone  grew  hard. 

"It's  very  good  of  her  to  interest  herself  in  me,"  he  mur- 
mured. 


HALF-HONEYMOON  157 

Gaisford  ignored  the  sneer  and  gave  Eric  time  to  recover 
his  urbanity. 

"It's  very  natural,"  he  amended.  "I  told  you,  when  you 
first  came  back,  that  you'd  played  far  too  big  a  part  in  her 
life  for  her  to  let  go  of  you  without  a  struggle.  You  may 
think  that,  after  the  harm  she's  done,  she'd  keep  away  out  of 
common  decency — that's  a  man's  point  of  view — ;  but,  when 
a  woman  gets  down  to  what  she  considers  vital,  common 
decency  has  no  meaning  for  her.  The  function  of 
woman — " 

"What  did  she  say?,"  Eric  interrupted,  blowing  away  the 
froth  of  generalization. 

"We  had  a  long  talk.  She  asked  if  I'd  seen  you,  and  I 
said  'Yes/  How  were  you?  I  said  you  were  better  than 
you'd  been  in  ten  years.  Did  you  seem  happy?  'Very,'  I 
said.  (I'm  devoted  to  Barbara  in  spite  of  everything,  but 
she  wanted  the  luxury  of  feeling  that  she'd  spoilt  your  life 
and  of  pretending  to  be  inconsolable  about  it ;  I  couldn't  al- 
low that).  She  asked  if  you  ever  mentioned  her;  I  said 
'no'.  .  .  Then  I  could  see  that  she  wasn't  satisfied,  for  her 
next  question  was — who  was  the  girl  who  was  working  for 
you;  and  was  she  the  girl  who  was  always  with  you  at  the 
opera?  I  said,  truthfully  enough,  that  I  didn't  know.  .  . 
Be  warned,  my  friend." 

"I  wonder  how  she  heard,"  was  all  that  Eric  would 
answer;  but  he  was  aflame  with  resentment  at  the  thought 
that  Barbara  even  unconsciously  dreamed  of  overturning  the 
flimsy  shelter  which  he  was  so  patiently  erecting  from  the 
rubble  and  ruin  of  his  life. 

Gaisford  looked  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and 
saw  that  he  was  frowning.  He  saw,  too,  that,  were  Barbara 
to  question  him  now,  he  could  not  so  truthfully  pay  tributes 
to  Eric's  health. 

"Well,  I  wish  you  the  best  of  luck,  my  son,"  he  said. 
"Of  course,  it's  an  'enormous  risk,  but  I  think  you  do  at 


158  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

least  see  that;  and  you're  giving  yourself  as  fair  a  chance  as 
circumstances  allow." 

"You're — temperate  in  your  enthusiasm,"  Eric  laughed. 

"I've  reached  an  age  when  I  no  longer  look  for  perfection 
— even  the  perfect  marriage,"  Gaisford  said  at  length. 
"And  I've  outgrown  romance.  And  I've  not  many  ideals 
left.  When  everything  else  is  burnt  out,  I  want  to  know 
that  you've  found  companionship.  You're  as  bad  as  all  the 
rest,  Eric ;  at  present  you're  doing  this  for  a  new  emotion.  . 
I  don't  know  this  girl — ,  but  is  she  going  to  be  a  companion? 
It's  an  awful  thing  to  marry  some  one  who's  not  educated 
up  to  your  standard ;  it's  like  playing  bridge  eternally  with 
a  partner  who  doesn't  know  one  suit  from  another." 

"She's — a  companion  all  right,"  said  Eric  softly,  remem- 
bering with  a  warm  rush  of  gratitude  the  new  colour  that 
she  had  already  brought  into  his  life.  Ivy  was  quick  and 
receptive;  he  found  her  also  well-read  and  intelligent,  with 
a  personal  standpoint  towards  books  and  ideas  which  she  had 
taken  up  by  herself  and  would  not  surrender  without  a  strug- 
gle; if  she  picked  up  her  generation's  catch-words,  it  was 
because  she  was  still  too  young  to  understand  the  emancipa- 
tion of  which  every  one  was  talking.  Best  of  all,  she  was 
adaptable  by  nature,  and  he  could  see  her  moulding  herself 
to  his  form  in  the  single  hope  of  bringing  him  happiness. 
"She's  companion  enough  to  make  me  forget  everything  else 
— already,"  he  added. 

"Already?  It  doesn't  occur  to  you  that  you're  both  drunk 
with  romance  at  the  moment?  The  reason  why  your  two- 
penny-halfpenny plays  are  so  popular  is  that  we  all  love 
telling  ourselves  stories  and  escaping  into  a  world  where  we 
can  be  as  dramatic  and  romantic  and  purposeful  and  mag- 
nanimous as  a  character  in  a  book — or  as  you  and  this  child 
are  being  at  this  moment.  Admit  that  you're  both  enjoying 
it!  The  heroics,  the  tragedy,  the  sacrifice — " 


HALF-HONEYMOON  159 

"I'm  making  no  sacrifice,  Gaisford,"  Eric  interrupted, 
soberly. 

"You're  incorrigible !  You  were  bound  to  say  that !  It's 
in  the  part.  Well,  well !  I  only  beg  you — because  I'm  fond 
of  you — not  to  make  a  farce  of  what  you  call  your  pro- 
bation. Imagine  yourself  criticizing  some  one  else's  play 
instead  of  living  in  one  of  your  own.  Detachment,  de- 
tachment !" 

For  the  next  few  days  Eric  conscientiously  tried  to  regard 
his  secretary  as  a  soulless,  amorphous  machine;  Ivy,  how- 
ever, was  made  too  much  of  a  piece  to  work  mechanically 
from  nine  till  half -past  one,  then  give  rein  to  her  feelings 
from  half -past  one  till  three  and  again  relapse  into  a  ma- 
chine. She  toiled  as  though  her  life  and  his  career  depended 
on  every  letter  that  she  wrote ;  her  eyes  shone  when  he  came 
into  the  room ;  and  she  took  in  every  movement  of  his  body 
and  every  trick  of  voice  and  speech.  At  the  end  of  the  day 
she  sprang  up  like  a  child  released  from  school  and  threw 
her  arms  round  him. 

"Do  you  always  work  like  this?,"  she  asked  him  one  night. 
"It  must  be  bad  for  you." 

"I  don't  call  this  work,"  he  answered.  "The  atmos- 
phere's too  highly  charged  with  Miss  Ivy  Maitland  for  that. 
But  I  want  to  get  my  present  job  finished,  so  that,  #/  I  go  to 
America — " 

"When"  she  interrupted  with  a  pleading  smile  that  taxed 
his  fortitude.  It  was  hardly  possible  to  keep  at  an  artificial 
distance  without  robbing  her  of  her  precarious  security. 

"We'll  discuss  that  jn  three  weeks'  time.  //  I  go,  I  want 
to  go  with  a  clear  conscience." 

"You  insist  on  waiting?" 

"We  can't  take  any  risk,  Ivy,"  he  sighed. 

She  pushed  him  gently  into  a  chair  and  knelt  on  the  floor 
by  his  side,  resting 'her  face  on  her  hands  and  looking  at  him 


160  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

with  an  adoration  which  seemed  still  too  great  for  her  to 
comprehend. 

"My  darling,  do  you  think  I  don't  love  you  more  and  more 
every  day  ?,"  she  asked.  "I  don't  want  to  wait.  Sometimes 
I  grow  frightened,  Eric;  I  wonder  if  you'll  repent.  .  .  I 
know  you  love  me,  or  you  wouldn't  have  done  what  you  have 
done—" 

"But  you  wouldn't  be  a  woman,  if  you  didn't  want  me  to 
tell  you  at  short  intervals  that  I  still  loved  you.  I'm  trying 
to  get  a  cool  judgement  from  you." 

"And  I  don't  want  to  be  cool  or  temperate  or  sensible. 
I.  .  .  I  want  not  to  be  frightened  again,  Eric." 

Her  eyes,  wistful  with  discouragement,  filled  with  tears 
and  fell  until  he  could  see  the  long  lashes  black  against  her 
cheeks.  Since  their  return  from  Maidenhead,  she  had  never 
complained;  and  Eric  was  in  danger  of  forgetting  that  she 
had  anything  to  fear.  Putting  his  arm  round  her  waist,  he 
lifted  her  on  to  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"You've  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  Ivy,"  he  whispered, 
stroking  her  short  black  hair  until  she  grew  calm  at  his  touch. 
"I  shouldn't  go  back  on  my  promise,  even  if  I  wanted  to. 
And  it  happens  that  I  don't  want  to." 

"But  you  do  love  me,  Eric?  I've  been  thinking — quite  a 
lot  and  quite  cold-bloodedly.  I  can't  take  what  you're  offer- 
ing, unless  you  love  me.  It  would  be  too  much,  I  should 
have  no  right.  .  .  If  I  did  anything,  after  this,  to  make  you 
wretched.  .  .  And  I  shouldn't  take  it.  .  .  You  said  you'd 
rnarry  me  in  spite  of  everything,  but  I  sometimes  think  you're 
marrying  me  because  of  everything,  because  I've  made  such 
a  mess  of  my  life,  because  you  were  divinely  sorry  for  me. 
But  do  you  love  me  apart  from  that?  If  I  told  you  that  the 
whole  thing  was  a  dream — " 

"I  should  call  it  a  device  of  destiny  for  bringing  us  to- 
gether. .  ."  He  stopped  abruptly,  afraid  to  trust  his  voice, 


HALF-HONEYMOON  161 

as  her  eyes  lit  up.  "And,  by  the  same  test,  if  that  were  only 
a  dream,  would  you  want  to  marry  me?,"  he  continued. 

"Yes." 

"More  than  any  one  you've  ever  met  or  are  likely  to 
meet?" 

"Yes."  Eric  sighed  and  lapsed  into  silence;  for  the  first 
time  in  ten  days  he  felt  sure  of  himself.  "But  I  shan't  love 
you  a  bit,"  she  pouted,  "if  you're  cold  and  remote  when 
we're  married." 

"If.  .  .  All  right,  I  won't  tease  you,  Ivy  child,  if  it 
frightens  you.  What  can  I  say  to  keep  you  from  ever  being 
frightened  again?  Shall  I  tell  you  that  my  heart  and  head 
and  everything  inside  me  were  dead  until  a  few  days  ago? 
You've  brought  me  to  life  again.  .  ."  He  leaned  his  head 
against  her  shoulder,  staring  into  the  empty  fire  and  talking 
more  to  himself  than  to  her.  "What  d'you  think  it  means 
to  me  to  feel  that  this  room's  alive,  alive  with  you  ?  When 
I'm  called,  my  first  thought  is  that  in  two  hours  I  shall  see 
you.  An  hour  and  a  half,  one  hour.  .  .  When  you  come 
in,  Ivy,  it's  all  dark  outside.  It's  not  what  I  should  call  easy 
to  work  with  you.  I  want  to  break  the  typewriter  and  pick 
you  up  in  my  arms.  .  .  Is  it  just  a  coincidence  that  I've 
happened  to  lunch  at  home  every  day  this  week?  Or  is  it 
possible  that  I've  been  looking  forward  to  it  ever  since  the 
last  moment  when  we  were  off  duty  together?  Is  it  coinci- 
dence that  I've  been  to  the  opera  every  night  this  week — 
Aida,  ye  all  powerful  gods  !  and  another  dose  of  Louise — and 
that  I've  sat  two  feet  behind  you  so  that  I  could  see  your 
face  lit  up  and  knew  that  you  were  happy?"  Her  hand 
stole  down  over  his  shoulder,  and  he  seized  and  kissed  it. 
"And  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  guess  how  amazingly  empty 
these  rooms  seem  when  I  come  back  at  night  and  find  you're 
not  here — and  won't  be  here  till  next  day  ?" 

"I  know.  When  I  get  back.  .  .  I  pray  for  you,  Eric. 
I  never  used  to  pray  before.  At  least,  it  never  meant  any- 


162  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

thing  to  me,  but  now.  .  .  I  thank  God  for  you ;  and  I  feel 
He  understands.  .  .  He  understands  that  you've  interceded 
for  me.  And  I  pray  Him  to  forgive  me  and  shew  me  some 
way  of  paying  you  back.  And  sometimes  I  pray  Him  to 
make  me  patient;  and  sometimes,  when  I'm  frightened,  I 
pray  Him  just  to  make  the  weeks  pass  quickly.  Ah,  my 
dear  one!"  Her  fingers  tightened  on  his  wrist,  and  the 
voice  at  his  ear  trembled.  "If  anything  happened  to  you !" 

"Nothing's  going  to,  Ivy !" 

"But  ever?  You're  sixteen  years  older  than  I  am.  When 
I'm  seventy — " 

"You'll  have  had  more  than  enough  of  me  then." 

"Please  God,  I  shall  die  before  you,  Eric!" 

"Well,  I'll  promise  not  to  marry  again,"  he  laughed.  "Ivy, 
are  you  too  tired  to  take  down  one  more  letter  ?>J 

"My  darling,  of  course  not !" 

"I  want  you  to  write  to  my  solicitors.  I've  never  made  a 
will;  and,  of  course,  I  shall  have  to  make  another,  if  and 
when  we  marry,  but  I  don't  want  to  run  even  the  remotest 
risk.  I  gather  that  you  can't  look  to  your  father  with  any 
certainty  ?" 

"He  told  me  so — quite  definitely.  If  I  chose  to  cut  myself 
adrift—" 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  tell  my  solicitors  to  draft  a  will ;  I'll 
leave  your  name  blank  and  fill  it  in  afterwards.  Then,  if  I 
drop  down  dead  in  the  street — " 

"Don't,  Eric!" 

It  was  seven  o'clock  before  he  had  finished,  and  they  both 
had  to  dress  and  make  their  way  out  to  dinner  by  a  quarter 
past  eight.  Eric  walked  into  Ryder  Street  to  find  her  a  taxi 
and  to  post  his  letters. 

"What  do  you  say  to  coming  to  my  people  for  this  next 
week-end?,"  he  asked.  "We  won't  tell  them  anything,  of 
course,  but  I  should  like  you  to  meet  them.  I'm  committed 
to  going  any  way ;  and  I  can  take  you  on  the  plea  of  work, 


HALF-HONEYMOON  1 63 

if  necessary.  My  younger  brother  was  away  fighting,  when 
he  came  of  age,  so  we're  celebrating  it  now.  Will  you  come? 
Good.  We'll  discuss  details  at  dinner;  you're  coming  to 
this  Brazilian  show  at  the  Ritz,  aren't  you?" 

"Madame  Pinto  de  Vasconcellos  ?  Yes,  Aunt  Connie's 
taking  me." 

"Let's  hope  we're  together.  It  threatens  to  be  a  tiresome" 
evening." 

His  dinner-party,  heralded  by  a  flamboyant  card  of  invita- 
tion and  reinforced  by  the  personal  appeals  of  Lady  Mait- 
land,  Mrs.  Shelley  and  Lady  Poynter,  had  threatened  him 
for  three  weeks.  Early  in  the  season  a  taciturn  and  swarthy 
South  American  had  descended  upon  London  with  a  wife,  a 
bottomless  purse  and  inexhaustible  letters  of  introduction. 
Madame  Pinto  had  noteworthy  diamonds,  vitality,  an  in- 
terest in  the  more  obvious  forms  of  flirtation  and  a  hunger 
for  entertaining.  Her  first  letter  of  introduction  was  pre- 
sented to  Lady  Poynter,  who  telephoned  to  six  friends  in 
twice  six  minutes :  "If  you  will  help  me  out  with  this  Pinto 
woman,  I'll  do  the  same  for  you" ;  and  for  three  weeks  the 
Brazilians  were  pushed  from  house  to  house  by  those  who 
were  menaced  by  their  own  Madame  Pinto — under  other 
names — or  who  had  launched  Madame  Pintos  in  the  past. 
Gerry  Began  way,  whose  name  headed  every  list  of  those 
whom  it  did  not  matter  inviting  to  meet  the  Pinto  de  Vascon- 
cellos, tracked  them  round  London  and  sketched  a  map  of 
their  progress  from  Belgrave  Square  and  Lady  Poynter, 
where  they  were  submerged  by  symbolist  poets  and  rapidly 
expelled  because  they  "contributed  nothing"  to  the  sym- 
posium, by  way  of  Eaton  Place,  where  Lady  Maitland  sold 
them  boxes  for  charity  concerts,  to  Grosvenor  Square  and 
Croxton  Hall,  where  Lady  Pentyre  took  them  in  because,  in 
her  son's  words,  she  knew  no  better  and  would  be  kind  to 
any  one. 

Thereafter  gratitude  or  vindictiveness  urged  them  to  re- 


164  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

prisals,  and  for  three  more  weeks  Lady  Poynter  arranged 
"Pinto  parties"  on  the  principle  that,  if  her  friends  would 
keep  her  in  countenance  on  one  day,  she  would  do  the  same 
for  them  when  their  turn  came.  The  formula  was  incor- 
porated in  the  code  of  social  honour,  till  a  man  would 
more  readily  have  malingered  on  the  eve  of  an  attack  than 
failed  to  succour  a  friend  who  was  struck  down  by  a  Pinto 
invitation.  Eric  had  resisted  for  some  weeks:  but  Lady 
Poynter  at  last  presented  an  ultimatum,  which  he  saw  no 
means  of  evading. 

There  was  already  a  considerable  nucleus  when  he  reached 
the  hotel  a  few  minutes  befcv  the  advertised  time  for 
dinner;  and  those  who  knew  nothing  of  their  host  were  in- 
dustriously adding  to  the  saga  collected  by  those  who  did. 

"Why  does  Margaret  Poynter  do  these  things  ?,"  squeaked 
Deganway  with  a  petulant  glance  round  the  company. 
"She's  too  tiresome.  What  she  can  hope  to  get  out  of  it — " 

"I  understand  she's  trying  to  make  him  subsidize  a  Shake- 
speare theatre,"  interrupted  Carstairs.  "Well,  I  mustn't 
throw  stones ;  my  old  mother  wants  to  stick  him  with  Herrig 
on  a  long  lease.  /  think  it's  a  bit  of  a  gamble,  because  no 
one  knows  anything  about  them.  The  Embassy  shuts  up  like 
an  oyster,  if  you  mention  their  name;  and  the  Brazilian 
colony  don't  seem  much  the  wiser." 

"Oh,  7  heard — Now,  let  me  see,  what  did  I  hear?,"  said 
Deganway,  letting  fall  his  eye-glass  and  frowning.  "He  got 
a  contract  for  building  a  new  railway  and,  because  the  con- 
tract said  nothing  about  bridges,  he  stopped  short,  whenever 
he  came  to  a  river,  and  started  again  on  the  other  side. 
Then  they  gave  him  a  new  contract  to  build  the  bridges  and 
link  up  his  system.  That's  where  he  made  his  profit;  but 
Brazil  wasn't  healthy,  when  he'd  finished,  so  he  bolted  with 
the  boodle.  So  romantic!  He  didn't  bolt  quick  enough, 
though;  she  overtook  him  just  as  the  gangway  was  being 
cast  off." 


HALF-HONEYMOON  165 

He  laughed  thinly;  but  Eric  had  heard  enough  from  him 
and,  turning  away,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Lady 
John  Carstairs. 

"Do  all  English  people  make  fun  of  a  woman  before  eating 
her  food,"  she  said  rather  sharply,  with  a  quelling  gesture 
at  her  husband,  as  they  shook  hands. 

"Only  the  better-bred,"  Eric  answered.  "It's  one  of  the 
things  you  have  to  get  used  to.  What's  Madame  Pinto  like? 
I  don't  even  know  her  by  sight." 

"Oh,  she's  quite  harmless,  but  you  can't  pick  up  everything 
in  a  day.  I've  been  here  six  months  and  I  can't  yet  keep  all 
my  own  husband's  relations  distinct.  .  .  Ah,  here  they  are !" 

She  turned  with  a  smile,  as  a  stout,  sallow  woman  in  a 
pink  dress  advanced  apologetically  into  the  lounge  with  a 
tall,  saturnine  husband  at  her  heels.  Both  looked  round  with 
dizzy  shyness,  breaking  into  shrill  effusiveness,  when  they 
recognized  a  face  and  could  fit  it  with  an  approximate  name. 
Madame  Pinto  de  Vasconcellos  spoke  fluent  English  with  a 
strong  accent ;  her  husband  limited  himself  to  a  bow,  a  hand- 
shake and  a  clipped  "How  do  you  do  ?,"  as  his  wife's  friends 
brought  up  their  own  friends  to  be  introduced.  From  time 
to  time,  pretending  to  count  the  numbers,  he  peered  fur- 
tively at  a  type-written  list,  but,  as  Lady  Poynter  undertook 
the  introductions  and  never  remembered  more  than  one  name, 
his  initial  perplexity  deepened  to  bewilderment. 

Eric  was  caught  and  pushed  forward  with  a  hasty,  "You 
know  Madame  Pinto,  don't  you?  Now,  is  it  worth  while 
waiting  for  the  Oakleighs?  Barbara  was  born  a  week  late, 
and  she's  never  caught  up." 

Though  he  fancied  that  for  the  last  fortnight  he  had 
forgotten  Barbara  and  that  for  the  last  three  months  he  had 
rehearsed  himself  into  impassivity,  Eric  knew  that  the 
muscles  of  his  face  were  stiffening.  Lady  Poynter  was 
happily  too  much  preoccupied  to  notice  any  sign  of  em- 
barrassment, and  in  a  moment  he  was  at  ease  again.  It 


1 66  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

would  be  a  strain  on  his  fortitude,  perhaps,  if  he  were 
placed  next  to  Barbara ;  but  he  knew  that  he  could  meet  her 
and  sit  composedly  at  the  same  table.  He  knew  also  that 
this  meeting  had  to  take  place.  .  .  . 

Lady  Poynter  possessed  herself  of  the  type- written  list  and 
•suggested  that  they  should  begin  without  waiting  any  longer. 
As  he  peered  at  the  name-cards,  Eric  was  relieved  to  find  that 
he  was  five  places  away  from  Barbara,  on  the  same  side  of 
the  table,  between  Ivy  and  Madame  Pinto ;  he  was  further  re- 
lieved that  he  was  facing  the  door  so  that  he  would  probably 
see  her  before  she  saw  him.  .  .  . 

As  dinner  began,  his  hostess  exchanged  bewilderment  for 
frank  recklessness. 

"I  do  not  know  half  these  people,"  she  confided  loudly. 
"I  meet  so  many.  Tell  me,  Mr. — ,"  she  reached  for  pow- 
dered sugar  and  tried  without  success  to  read  Eric's  name- 
card,  "the  woman  next  to  Lord  Poynter;  who  is  she?" 

"That's  Lady  John  Carstairs,"  Eric  answered.  "Her 
husband's  on  Lady  Maitland's  right;  and  that's  his  mother, 
the  Duchess  of  Ross,  between  your  husband  and  Mr.  Be- 
gan way." 

"Ah,  thank  you.  It  is  so  confusing  at  first.  I  have 
made  the  most  dreadful  mistakes  through  not  knowing  who 
every  one  was." 

"Well,  Lady  John  says  she  doesn't  yet  know  her  own  re- 
lations," Eric  answered  reassuringly.  "She's  an  American, 
you  know." 

Madame  Pinto  rolled  her  eyes  in  consternation : 

"I  did  not  know.  We  met  at  Lady  Poynter's  house,  and 
I  said  terrible  things  about  North  America.  In  my  country 
— Brazil,  you  know.  .  .  You  are  not  an  American  ?" 

"You  can  say  anything  you  like  to  me,  Madame  Pinto. 
Political,  racial,  religious.  .  .  By  the  way,  half  these  people 
are  Catholics,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  as  the  door  opened  to  admit  Barbara  and 


HALF-HONEYMOON  1 67 

George  Oakleigh.  Eric  felt  his  features  stiffening  again, 
as  she  looked  round  to  identify  her  hostess  and  came  forward 
with  an  exaggerated  apology.  She  had  always  dominated 
any  room  that  she  entered;  she  dominated  this  one.  While 
she  paused  a  studied  moment  in  the  doorway,  every  one  in- 
voluntarily turned  to  look  at  her ;  the  comfortable  clatter  of 
conversation  grew  still  and  died  away,  to  be  succeeded  by 
blurred  cries  of  welcome:  "Babs!"  "Dear  Barbara,  how 
sweet  you  look  to-night !"  "Babs  darling !"  Eric  had  stood 
a  dozen  times,  like  George  Oakleigh,  a  pace  behind  her,  as 
she  came  into  the  room ;  like  him,  a  little  embarrassed  to  be 
late;  like  him,  exulting  in  the  theatrical  magnificence  of  her 
entry.  .  .  . 

Ivy  touched  his  arm  and  whispered: 

"Is  that  Lady  Barbara?  I've  only  seen  her  in  the 
distance  before.  Eric,  how  fascinating  she  is !" 

Barbara  brought  her  apology  +o  an  end  and  looked  for  her 
chair.  Her  eyes  met  Eric's,  and,  as  she  passed  him,  she 
shook  hands  and  murmured,  "How  are  you  ?"  There  was  a 
final  spurt  of  welcome  from  the  men  on  either  side  of  her, 
as  she  sat  down;  and  Eric  tried  to  remember  what  he  had 
been  discussing  before  her  interruption. 

Madame  Pinto  had  lost  no  time  in  establishing  him  as  her 
confidant  and  adviser;  with  her  second  glass  of  champagne, 
matter-of-course  friendliness  warmed  to  embarrassingly  out- 
spoken coquetry. 

"You  are  clever  and  nice,"  she  proclaimed  resonantly, 
darting  a  swift  glance  from  under  darkened  eye-lashes  and 
touching  his  hand  with  sparkling,  ring-laden  fingers.  "Those 
two,  now?  Who  are  they?" 

"George  Oakleigh  and  his  wife,"  Eric  answered  in  an 
undertone.  "He  used  to  be  in  the  House — in  Parliament, 
you  know.  She  was  Lady  Barbara  Neave,  daughter  of  Lord 
Crawleigh,  our  Governor-General  in  Canada  at  one  time, 
then  Viceroy  of  India.  She's  related  to  almost  everybody 


1 68  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

here — first  cousin  of  Carstairs,  first  cousin  of  Lady  Amy 
Loring.  .  .  ." 

Madame  Pinto  nodded  vehemently  until  her  diamonds 
quivered  and  flashed. 

"I  remember!  I  met  her  at  lunch  with  Lady  Poynter. 
And,  also,  I  have  heard  of  her,"  she  answered.  "That  young 
man  in  your  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs — " 

"Deganway?  You  mustn't  take  all  he  says  too  literally," 
interposed  Eric. 

Madame  Pinto's  voice  was  more  penetrating  than  she 
knew ;  and  he  could  see  that  Barbara  was  sitting  inattentive  to 
her  neighbours. 

"He  said  that  she  had  broken  all  your  hearts,  one  after 
another.  .  .  I  am  not  surprised." 

"You  must  be  careful,"  Eric  whispered  in  agony.  "She'll 
hear." 

Barbara  had  already  heard  and  was  pretending  that  she 
had  not,  galvanizing  herself  to  an  interest  in  her  neighbour. 
Madame  Pinto  looked  down  the  table  and  saw  her  preoc- 
cupied. 

"Ah,  you  are  one  of  all  those  relations!  I  am  sorry, 
Mr.—?" 

"An  old  friend,"  Eric  answered  brusquely. 

Perhaps  it  was  feminine  curiosity,  perhaps  Madame  Pinto 
felt  subconsciously  that  she  was  being  headed  off  something 
of  interest,  perhaps  she  had  a  perverse  talent  for  the  mal  a 
propos.  Certainly  it  seemed  as  though  nothing  would  satisfy 
her  until  she  had  plumbed  the  bottomless  pool  of  gossip  in 
which  Deganway  had  submerged  Barbara;  and  for  the 
hundredth  time  Eric  wished  that  some  one  would  thrash 
Deganway  or  cut  his  tongue  out. 

"I  hear  you're  taking  a  house  in  London,"  he  began  hur- 
riedly. 

Madame  Pinto  was  not  to  be  so  easily  diverted  from  her 
quest. 


HALF-HONEYMOON  169 

"Mr.  Deganway  told  me,"  she  pursued,  "that,  when  she 
was  sixteen,  a  man  blew  his  brains  out,  because  she  would 
not  marry  him.  He  says  that,  ever  since,  she  has  expected 
it  of  all  the  others." 

"The  first  part  of  the  story's  probably  untrue ;  the  second 
certainly  is,"  Eric  answered  curtly.  "I  know  her  very  well, 
Madame  Pinto.  She's  always  been  rather  unconventional, 
she's  always  been  greatly  admired  and  very  much  in  the 
public  eye.  The  result  is  that  no  story  is  too  fantastic  to  be 
believed  about  her  by  people  who  don't  know  her.  De- 
ganway does;  and  he's  no  business  to  talk  such  nonsense.  .  . 
I  used  to  see  a  great  deal  of  Lady  Barbara  before  her  mar- 
riage; I  look  back  on  her  friendship  as  one  of  the  greatest 
achievements  of  my  life.  Steele  said  of  Lady  Elizabeth 
Hastings  that  to  love  her  was  a  liberal  education;  I  should 
like  to  think  that  my  friendship  meant  half  as  much  to  any 
one.  .  .  Do  you  know  Carstairs  well?  He's  in  the  Diplo- 
matic, and  I  believe  he  was  out  in  Rio  once.  .  .  ." 

The  abrupt  transition  from  low-voiced,  tense  earnestness 
to  a  conversational  drawl  convinced  even  Madame  Pinto  that 
he  was  forcibly  dismissing  Barbara  from  discussion. 

nHave  I  said  something  dreadful?,"  she  asked  with  an 
unabashed  smile. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  that  you  could  say  anything  you  liked  to 
me  ?,"  he  laughed.  "Political,  racial,  religious  ?  I  only  draw 
the  line  at  something  personal,  when  it  concerns  a  friend  of 
mine  and  doesn't  happen  to  be  true.  Deganway  ought  to 
know  better." 

As  he  turned  to  Ivy,  Eric  glanced  involuntarily  past  her 
and  was  in  time  to  see  Barbara  looking  quickly  away.  She, 
then,  had  heard,  too.  And  probably  half  a  dozen  more  on 
either  side,  but  they  did  not  matter.  He  wondered  whether 
she  would  try  to  speak  to  him  after  dinner.  She  would  love 
the  dramatic  sense  of  humility  in  thanking  him  for  his 
defence.  . 


170  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"I  sent  my  mother  a  line  before  dinner  to  fix  up  about  the 
week-end,"  Eric  announced  at  random.  "I  forget  if  I 
warned  you  that  my  father  had  a  serious  illness  last 
autumn.  .  .  ." 

His  family  and  home  provided  a  subject  for  discussion 
with  Ivy  until  the  end  of  dinner.  While  Madam  Pinto  was 
talking,  it  seemed  as  though  they  were  rivetted  to  their  chairs 
through  all  eternity;  as  soon  as  he  was  set  free,  their  plates 
were  snatched  away  almost  before  they  could  see  what  had 
been  placed  before  them.  Lulled  by  the  drone  of  his  own 
voice,  Eric  roused  with  a  start  to  hear  the  Duchess  of  Ross 
asking  her  son  whether  he  had  room  for  her  in  his  car,  as  she 
had  to  be  at  another  party  by  eleven.  One  or  two  of  the 
men  looked  at  their  watches;  chairs  were  pushed  back  and 
heads  dived  under  the  table  in  search  of  gloves  and  bags. 
Barbara  stood  up  and  took  in  the  room  at  a  glance ;  and  Eric 
felt  that  her  personality  spread  through  the  air  like  a  wave 
of  electricity.  Ivy  was  talking  to  Lady  Maitland,  Madame 
Pinto  was  receiving  thanks  and  showering  adieux  on  her 
guests ;  alone  and  apart,  he  was  too  far  from  any  one  to  take 
cover. 

Barbara  began  to  draw  on  her  gloves  and  walked  slowly 
towards  the  door.  As  she  came  opposite  him,  she  turned 
almost  in  afterthought,  looking  up  for  an  instant  before  con- 
centrating afresh  on  the  buttons  of  her  glove. 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  stand  up  for  me  against  that  odious 
woman,  Eric,"  she  whispered. 

"One  lie  more  or  less  hardly  matters  at  this  season,  Lady 
Barbara." 

"Dear  God!  don't  call  me  that!" 

Eric  had  a  full  armoury  of  bitterness,  but  opportunity 
killed  any  desire  to  use  it.  He  had  been  ready  to  find  Bar- 
bara falsely  repentant  or  as  falsely  defiant;  she  would  per- 
haps explain,  perhaps  scoff;  he  had  not  expected  that  she 
would  plead  for  mercy  because  he  had  unwittingly  hurt  her. 


HALF-HONEYMOON  1 7 1 

"I  did  not  seek  this  meeting,"  he  answered. 

"You  never  used  to  be  vindictive." 

"I'm  doing  my  best  to  forget  anything  I  was,  anything  I've 
done." 

"You  hate  me  as  much  as  that?  I  thought.  .  .  No,  I 
hoped,  I  hoped  you  meant  it  when  you  said  that  to  love  me 
was  a  liberal  education." 

Her  softly  reproachful  tone  puffed  into  flame  every 
memory  of  his  own  three  years'  suffering,  which  to  her  was 
but  an  occasion  for  snatching  at  a  compliment. 

"If  so,  a  liberaUeducation  has  no  place  for  romance.  You 
cured  me  of  that.  It  was  not  your  fault.  As  you  know, 
I'd  been  a  semi-invalid  all  my  life;  I'd  been  brought  up 
among  women  who  shewed  me  only  unselfishness  and  de- 
votion and  patience  and  sacrifice.  I  could  trust  them;  they 
told  the  truth.  When  you  used  the  same  terms,  I  thought 
they  meant  the  same  things  to  you." 

She  bit  her  lip  until  it  shewed  grey  under  the  white  gleam 
of  her  teeth : 

"Well,  I  hope  you  at  least  will  be  happy,  Eric,  some  time. 
When  you  are,  you'll  become  magnanimous  again.  Then 
perhaps  you'll  forgive  me." 

"I  can't  feel  that  my  forgiveness  plays  much  part  in  your 
happiness." 

"I  sometimes  wonder  if  I've  ever  known  what  happiness 
means.  .  .  Good-bye,  Eric." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  stood  looking  at  him  with  eye- 
lids flickering  as  though  he  had  struck  her  in  the  face ;  she  was 
wincing  before  a  second  blow.  To  act  was  so  much  second 
nature  to  her  that  her  attitude  of  unfriended  humility  might 
be  a  pose;  but  Eric  felt  that,  inasmuch  as  she  had  not 
descended  to  his  duel  of  bitterness,  she  had  prevailed  in  the 
encounter.  He  hated  the  whole  evening,  with  its  need  to 
lie  in  her  defence  and  his  own  bursting  desire  to  escape  the 
charge  of  magnanimity. 


172  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Eric  drew  his  hand  away,  but  he  could  not  help  looking  at 
her  flickering  lids  and  reproachful  eyes.  So  she  had  stood 
a  score  of  times  when  she  had  goaded  him  to  madness  and 
his  taut  nerves  had  snapped.  No  longer  acting,  but  sud- 
denly hurt,  suddenly  shocked,  suddenly  tired;  sorry  to  have 
maddened  him,  but  helplessly  torn  and  unable  to  let  him  go ; 
and  always  gently  maternal,  yearning  to- comfort,  to  for- 
give. .  .  Her  lips  were  parted ;  Eric  could  have  sworn  that 
her  hands  twitched  as  though  she  were  once  more  going  to 
throw  her  arms  round  him  and  seal  her  forgiveness  with  a 
kiss.  With  theatrical  timeliness  he  heard  George  Oakleigh 
excusing  himself  from  accepting  an  invitation.  .  .  . 

It  was  impossible  to  stop  looking  at  her.  .  .  Why  George? 
He  wanted  to  fling  the  question  at  her,  demanding  why  she 
had  married  George  Oakleigh  instead  of  waiting,  though  he 
knew  that  their  love  was  paralysed  before  they  parted. 
Waiting  would  have  done  no  good.  But  why  George,  if  he 
had  not  made  her  happy?  She  did  not  hint  that  she  had 
married  the  wrong  man,  but  it  was  written  in  her  eyes; 
tragedy  had  come  home  to  a  woman  who  had  played  mock- 
tragic  parts  all  her  life.  .  .  Loneliness.  .  .  Despair.  .  . 
And  Eric  had  fancied  that  the  suffering  had  been  all  on  his 
side,  that  she  had  at  worst  been  worried  to  know  how  to  ex- 
plain away  her  treatment  of  him.  .  .  . 

"Thursday,  yes.  I  don't  think  we're  doing  anything  on 
Thursday.  I'll  ask  Babs." 

George  was  still  juggling  with  his  invitation :  he  must  have 
kept  it  aloft  for  hours  by  now.  .  .  And  he  was  coming  to 
draw  Barbara  into  the  game. 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Barbara,"  said  Eric. 

She  winced  again : 

"Do  you  need  that  to  make  yourself  secure?  If  you 
knew  how  it  hurt!  Whatever  I've  done.  .  .  I  haven't  de- 
fended myself,  have  I,  Eric?  And,  whatever  you  think  of 
me,  won't  you  say  you  forgive  me,  if  I  tell  you  that  I  need 


HALF-HONEYMOON  173 

it,  that  it  will  make  a  difference  to  me?  Do  you  want  me 
to  feel  that  I've  killed  your  generosity — in  addition  to  every- 
thing else?" 

"I'll  say  it,  if  it's  any  consolation  to  you." 

"Thank  you,  Eric.  You  needn't  be  afraid,  I've  had  my 
share  of  education,  too.  I  didn't  know  you  were  going  to 
be  here  to-night;  I've  tried  not  to  embarrass  you.  If  it's 
any  help  for  you  to  know  where  I'm  dining  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  .  .  I'll  do  anything  I  can  not  to  make  things 
harder." 

Eric  shook  his  head  quickly  and  looked  up,  as  George 
crossed  the  room.  Barbara's  moment  of  sincerity  had 
passed :  she  had  passed  the  half -obliterated  line  between 
emotion  and  drama.  Already  she  was  weaving  a  romance 
about  the  pair  of  them:  there  was  to  be  a  life's  passion 
thwarted,  two  starved  hearts  beating  in  remote  loneliness, 
resignation  on  her  side  and  chivalry  on  his,  with  ingenious 
romantic  appliances  to  keep  the  starved  hearts  starving ;  they 
were  to  spend  as  much  quixotic  contrivance  on  keeping  apart 
as  ever  a  pair  of  lovers  had  given  to  daily  clandestine  meet- 
ings. .  .  A  sensationalist  to  the  core.  .  .  The  distraction 
would  keep  her  dramatic*  sense  stimulated  for  years ;  in  the 
endless  possibilities  of  make-believe  she  might  forget  her 
tragedy.  He  would  almost  have  abetted  her,  if  so  he  might 
forget  the  look  of  tragedy  which  he  had  seen  ia  her  eyes; 
but  he  could  not  trust  her.  .  .  . 

"We'll  take  our  chance,"  he  said.  "I  shall  possibly  be 
going  away  fairly  soon." 

George  was  waiting  patiently  until  they  had  finished. 

"I  say,  Babs,  are  we  doing  anything  on  Thursday?"  he 
asked.  "Madame  Pinto  wants  us  to  lunch,  and  I  said  I 
thought  we  could." 

She  looked  at  her  husband  with'a  smile  of  gentle  reproach : 

"Darling  George,  we've  got  the  O'Ranes  lunching  with  us. 
Am  I  right  in  thinking  that  you've  forgotten  all  about  them?" 


174  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Eric  bowed  and  turned  away.  "Am  I  right  in  think- 
ing. .  .?"  It  was  a  familiar  trick  of  speech;  Barbara  had 
used  it  to  him  on  the  night  of  their  first  meeting  nearly  four 
years  ago.  It  hurt  him  to  hear  her  using  it  to  George, 
though  he  did  not  mind  her  calling  him  "darling".  Women 
were  a  promiscuous  sex,  transferring  their  hearts  and  bodies 
as  light-heartedly  as  a  servant  took  a  new  situation  "to  better 
herself".  .  .  As  he  passed  out  of  sound  of  their  voices,  he 
felt  that  this  evening  he  had  had  the  greatest  escape  of  his 
life ;  Barbara  would  not  try  to  meet  him  again,  and  he  could 
keep  her  at  arm's  length,  if  she  did.  He  only  hoped  that  he 
would  forget  that  look  of  tragedy.  .  .  . 

Ivy  was  waiting  for  him  by  the  door,  and  he  felt  that  he 
owed  her  an  explanation,  perhaps  an  apology.  .  .  . 

"Aunt  Connie's  gone  home  in  Lady  Poynter's  car,"  she 
announced.  "She's  left  her  own  for  us.  I'd  better  drop 
you  at  your  flat  and  take  it  on  home." 

"I'll  just  say  good-bye.  .  ."  He  darted  back  and  rejoined 
her  a  moment  later.  "Well,  thank  goodness  thafs  over.  Of 
all  the  forcible  feeders  who  outrage  total  strangers  in  the 
sacred  name  of  hospitality.  .  .  Did  you  enjoy  yourself, 
Ivy?" 

She  pressed  his  hand,  once  more  at  ease ;  and  he  wondered 
whether  she  fancied  that  she  was  rescuing  him  for  herself 
from  Barbara. 

"I  love  being  with  you — as  you  know,  you  vain  thing!," 
she  answered.  "Shall  I  tell  you  something?  I  went  into 
the  dining-room  before  dinner  and  found  Mr.  Deganway 
and  Lord  Pentyre  working  round  the  table.  Lord  Pentyre 
said,  'Any  luck,  Gerry  ?  I've  drawn  Amy  Loring  and  Connie 
Maitland.  'Might  be  worse.'  And  Mr  Deganway  said, 
'Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  between  Eleanor  Ross  and  Margaret 
Poynter.  I  don't  think  I  can  bear  that;  I  shall  break  down 
and  cry.'  So  he  changed  the  cards.  Well,  you  said  you 
hoped  we  should  be  together,  I  didn't  see  why  I  shouldn't 


HALF-HONEYMOON  175 

look  after  myself ;  so  I  'changed  places  with  Lady  John  and 
put  myself  next  to  you.  Were  you  pleased?" 

"You  badly  brought-up  child !  Yes,  I  was  pleased,  but  I 
wish  you'd  given  me  Lady  John  on  the  other  side  instead 
of  the  Vasconcellos  woman." 

He  settled  comfortably  in  his  corner  of  the  car,  reminded 
inevitably  of  the  nights  three  years  ago,  when  he  drove  home 
with  Barbara,  discussing  the  party  that  they  had  left.  She 
was  the  first  woman  to  break  down  the  isolated  self- 
sufficiency  of  the  bachelor  and  to  teach  him  the  indulgent 
delight  of  sharing  trivialities;  and,  from  the  day  when  she 
dropped  out  of  his  life,  he  had  been  groping  blindly  for 
anything  that  would  breach  the  wall  of  desolation  and  silence 
which  was  her  parting  gift.  .  .  . 

The  car  stopped  at  the  door  of  his  flat  in  Ryder  Street, 
and  Ivy  put  up  her  face  to  be  kissed. 

"Good-night,  darling  Eric,"  she  whispered. 

"Good-night,  sweetheart." 

As  the  car  drove  away,  he  stood  irresolutely  in  the  hall, 
swinging  his  keys.  A  widower  remarrying.  .  .  He  was 
beginning  to  treat  Ivy  very  much  as  he  had  treated  Barbara, 
chinking  of  her  and  for  her  in  the  same  way,  using  the  words 
which  had  once  been  sacred  to  Barbara.  And  Ivy  was 
fitting  herself  into  his  life  as  Barbara  had  once  done.  .  . 
Promiscuity  was  not  the  differentia  of  woman.  .  .  . 

Two  days  later  his  mother  wrote  colourlessly  to  say  that 
she  would  be  delighted  to  see  Miss  Maitland  for  the  week- 
end. If  she  speculated  on  the  person  and  destiny  of  a  girl 
whose  name  her  son  had  not  mentioned  until  that  moment, 
she  kept  her  own  counsel.  When  they  travelled  down  to 
Winchester  on  the  Saturday  afternoon,  a  Remington  was 
included  in  their  luggage,  and  Eric  reminded  Ivy  that  they 
must  keep  up  the  pretense  that  she  had  come  to  help  him 
with  his  work.  Though  they  had  rehearsed  their  parts, 
both  were  a  little  self-conscious;  and  to  their  oversensitive 


176  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

appreciation  every  one  at  first  seemed  elaborately  anxious 
not  to  betray  surprise.  Sybil  met  them  at  the  station  and 
greeted  Ivy  with  unreserved  friendliness;  Lady  Lane  wel- 
comed her  in  the  hall,  and,  when  Eric  went  upstairs  to  dress, 
Basil  came  into  his  room  with  ingenuous  congratulations. 

"Very  nice  line  in  secretaries,  old  thing,"  he  observed, 
throwing  himself  on  Eric's  bed.  "And  it's  like  you  to  keep 
her  to  yourself,  you  old  dog,  when  I've  been  mouldering  for 
two  years  in  Salonica  and  simply  yearning  for  refined  female 
society." 

"I  took  the  earliest  possible  opportunity,"  Eric  answered. 
"She's  only  been  with  me  a  fortnight,  while  my  permanent 
secretary's  taking  a  holiday ;  and  she's  only  going  to  be  with 
me  another  fortnight." 

"Well,  send  her  along  to  my  jolly  old  office,  when  she's 
through  with  you,"  Basil  suggested  swiftly.  "You've  simply 
no  conception  of  the  sort  of  thing  that's  blown  in  during  the 
war.  Every  sign  of  staying,  too." 

"I  don't  think  she's  on  the  look-out  for  that  kind  of  job. 
I  know  her  people,  and,  when  she  heard  I  was  alone  and 
secretaryless,  she  very  kindly  volunteered  to  come  and  lend 
me  a  hand  till  the  other  girl  came  back." 

Basil  wagged  his  head  dubiously. 

"I  call  it  very  trusting  of  her  parents,"  he  said.  "Fresh 
sweet  English  girl,  young  bachelor  of  doubtful  morality, 
notoriously  associated  with  the  stage.  .  .  I  don't  like  it  at 
all.  I  think  I  must  warn  her  about  you." 

"I  doubt  if  you'll  cut  much  ice.  .  .  Is  any  one  dining,  or 
are  we  treating  her  to  unrelieved  family?" 

"The  Warings  are  coming  over  to  ease  the  monotony. 
And,  by  the  same  token,  I'd  better  go  and  dress !" 

Basil,  then,  suspected  nothing ;  Geoffrey  would  think  what 
Basil  told  him  to  think;  his  father  would  awake  to  interest 
when  the  engagement  was  announced — and  not  before. 
There  remained  his  mother  and  Sybil. 


HALF-HONEYMOON  177 

Lady  Lane  was  by  herself  in  the  drawing-room,  when  he 
went  down,  and  she  laid  aside  her  paper  to  say: 

"My  dear,  what  a  sweet  little  girl!  Where  did  you 
find  her?" 

Whether  it  were  deliberate  encouragement  or  not,  Eric 
was  pleased : 

"I  met  her  in  America  first  of  all.  She's  a  daughter  of 
the  judge.  I  gather  he  knew  the  guv'nor  in  some  prehistoric 
period." 

"I  don't  remember  the  name."  Lady  Lane  waited,  as 
though  she  expected  that  Eric  might  have  something  more 
to  tell  her ;  then  she  repeated :  "A  sweet  little  girl.  You're 
lucky  to  find  her.  What's  happened  to  the  other  one?" 

"She's  only  having  a  holiday.  Ivy  very  kindly  volunteered 
to  come  in  her  place." 

He  used  the  Christian  name  deliberately  and  left  his 
mother  to  draw  her  own  inferences.  There  was  a  second 
silence;  and,  because  she  asked  nothing  more,  he  felt  that, 
before  he  left  the  house,  he  must  take  his  mother  into  his 
confidence. 

Throughout  dinner  he  tried  to  keep  one  eye  on  his  family 
and  the  other  on  Ivy.  She  was  achieving  a  marked  success, 
which  was  not  confined  to  his  younger  brothers.  Sybil  and 
the  Warings  made  at  least  a  show  of  surrender,  and  her 
success  reacted  on  Ivy.  Though  she  dared  not  look  at  him, 
Eric  could  see  that  her  eyes  were  shining  as  on  the  day 
when  he  had  brought  her  back  from  Maidenhead;  she  was 
feeling,  as  clearly  as  if  she  cried  it  aloud,  that  he  had  the 
most  delightful  parents  and  brothers  and  sister  in  the  world. 

It  was  after  eleven — and  late  for  Lashmar  Mill-House — 
before  the  Warings  left.  Eric  waited  to  fasten  the  windows, 
while  his  mother  turned  out  the  lights;  they  met  in  his 
father's  work-room. 

"I  quite  forgot -to  ask  Miss  Maitland  if  she'd  like  her 


178  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

breakfast  sent  up  to  her,"  said  Lady  Lane,  as  she  collected 
the  day's  papers  and  dropped  them  into  a  basket. 

"She  never  eats  any — except  tea  and  toast,"  Eric  an- 
swered. "Before  you  go  up,  mother,  I  should  like  you  to 
tell  me  candidly  what  you  think  of  her." 

"She's  very  young,  of  course,"  Lady  Lane  answered 
deliberately.  She  was  puzzled,  for  he  was  dispassionate, 
and  no  one  else  in  the  house  seemed  to  suspect  anything. 
Eric  was  grateful  to  her  for  cutting  all  circumlocution.  "I 
like  her,  Eric,  I  like  her  immensely.  She's  sweetly  pretty; 
I  think  she's  intelligent,  too.  .  .  You  can't  expect  any  great 
experience  at  that  age,  but  then  most  girls  of  the  present 
day  are  wofully  unpractical ;  she'll  have  to  learn,  like  the  rest. 
So  far  as  one  can  tell  on  very  short  acquaintance,  she's  a 
thoroughly  nice  little  girl.  .  .  I  always  think  a  man  should 
try  to  marry  a  woman  whose  experiences  are  behind  and 
not  in  front  of  her.  Of  course,  they're  growing  all  the  time, 
but,  like  children,  they  grow  so  much  more  quickly  when 
they're  very  young.  In  that  way  a  man's  in  danger  of 
marrying  a  child  and  rinding  soon  afterwards  that  she's 
grown  into  a  woman  that  he  doesn't  recognize.  .  .  Have 
you  known  her  long,  Eric  ?" 

"No.  And,  while  I  know  her  very  intimately  in  some 
ways,  I  hardly  know  her  at  all  in  others.  That's  why  I 
wanted  a  general,  outside  opinion.  It's  more  than  possible, 
mother,  that  I  may  come  to  you  one  day  and  tell  you  that 
we're  going  to  be  married." 

Lady  Lane  nodded  and  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  forehead : 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  be  very  happy,  dear  Eric."  His 
mother  was  delightfully  practical  and  restrained.  She  looked 
out  on  the  world  with  steady  eyes,  treating  emotion  as  an 
indecency.  Eric  wondered  why  none  of  her  calm  nerves  had 
descended  to  him.  "She's  devoted  to  you,  you've  only  to 
say  the  word.  Up  to  the  present — ?" 

She  paused  interrogatively. 


HALF-HONEYMOON  179 

"Nothing's  fixed  definitely,"  Eric  answered.  "It's  rather 
hard  to  explain,  but  there's  what  I  suppose  you  might  call 
"an  understanding."  I  can  tell  you  this  much:  we've  both 
of  us  seen  that  in  love  it's  possible  to  be  quite  certain  of 
yourself  and  then  to  find,  rather  painfully,  that  you've  been 
utterly  mistaken.  Yes,  even  at  her  age,  poor  child.  .  . 
We've  both  learned  the  lesson  and  paid  the  price;  we  don't 
want  to  make  any  more  mistakes.  I've  burned  my  fingers 
sufficiently  to  have  become  very  unromantic.  .  .  Don't  you 
think  we're  right  to  wait?" 

Lady  Lane  did  not  know  what  answer  to  give.  Since 
Eric  had  seen  the  blemishes  in  one  woman,  he  was  looking 
for  them  in  all ;  soon  he  would  see  nothing  else. 

"You  mustn't  wait  too  long;  that's  the  only  thing,"  she 
advised  him. 

"I  don't  want  to  take  any  risks."  He  seemed  to  tell 
every  one  that — Ivy,  Gaisford  and  his  mother. 

"But,  in  marriage,  risks  are  necessary.  Marriage  is  always 
an  adventure,  a  blind  leap.  You  don't  begin  to  know  any- 
thing about  a  woman  until  you're  married  to  her.  Even  if 
you  waited  until  you  thought  there  was  nothing  more  to 
learn,  the  girl  becomes  a  wife,  Eric,  and  the  wife  becomes 
a  mother.  Even  she  doesn't  see  how  big  the  change  is  until 
long  afterwards,  when  she  has  time  to  look  back  and  com- 
pare. /  don't  want  you  to  run  any  risks,  my  precious  son." 

"I  know.  .  .  And  /  want  peace  and  quiet  with  somebody 
I  love  and  somebody  who  loves  me,"  he  answered  wearily. 
"You  remember  the  last  time  we  had  a  talk  in  this  room?" 

"Well,  Ivy  loves  you.  Of  course  you've  got  a  certain 
name,  a  certain  position ;  she's  a  good  deal  dazzled  by  that." 

"That  isn't  the  biggest  factor  with  her.  .  .  Shall  we  go 
up?  You  won't  say  anything  about  this  to  the  others,  will 
you  ?" 

They  walked  through  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  arm  in 


180  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

arm.  Lady  Lane  paused  outside  the  door  of  her  room  and 
kissed  Eric  good-night. 

"God  bless  you  and  make  you  happy,  Eric,"  she  whispered. 

"Thank  you.  .  .    I  met  Barbara  the  other  night,  mother." 

"Yes?" 

"It  was  at  a  big  dinner.  I  don't  want  to  meet  her  again ; 
it  brought  everything  back  much  too  vividly." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  bound  to  meet  her  occasionally." 

"I  don't  think  she'll  try  to  force  a  meeting."  Eric  passed 
his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  his  mother  looked  at  him  with 
concern.  He  was  beginning  to  shew  her  so  many  familiar 
danger-marks;  and  she  prayed  that  he  would  make  up  his 
mind  before  his  nerves  broke  down  again.  "I  may  be 
wrong,"  he  went  on  slowly ;  "it  may  be  my  colossal  egotism, 
but  I  thought  that  under  all  the  vitality  she  was  profoundly 
miserable.  It  wasn't  an  exhibition  of  remorse  conducted 
for  my  benefit.  I  think  she  saw  that  she'd  made  a  mistake 
and  put  all  her  money  on  a  losing  number.  She  didn't 
trouble  to  hide  it.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  my  dear,  she  has  only  herself  to  thank." 

Eric  shivered  involuntarily: 

"I  don't  wish  my  worst  enemy  that  degree  of  torture. 
And  I  can  see  no  way  out  of  it  for  her." 

"And,  even  if  you  could,  it  wouldn't  be  your  business. 
She  must  lead  her  life,  Eric,  and  you  must  lead  yours." 


CHAPTER  NINE 

A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE 

".  .  .  Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt!    Give  all  thou  canst 
Away  to  the  new  faces — disentranced, 

(Say  it  and  think  it)  obdurate  no  more: 
Re-issue  looks  and  words  from  the  old  mint, 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose  the  print 
Image  and  superscription  once  they  bore! 

Re-coin  thyself  and  give  it  them  to  spend, — 

It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the  end, 

Since  mine  thou  wast,  mine  art  and  mine  shalt  be, 

Faithful  or  faithless,  sealing  up  the  sum 

Or  lavish  of  my  treasure,  thou  must  come 

Back  to  the  heart's  place  here  I  keep  for  thee !  .  .  ." 
ROBERT  BROWNING:  "ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND." 

"I  WONDER  what's  in  store  for  us  this  time,"  mused 
Deganway,  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the  platform  at  Euston 
with  Carstairs.  "Bobbie  Pentyre  has  a  genius  for  mis- 
managing a  house-party.  No  technique,  no  personality — " 

"It's  not  for  want  of  experience,"  interposed  Carstairs 
gloomily.  "It  must  be  ten  years  since  I  first  stayed  at 
Croxton,  and  something  has  always  gone  wrong.  .  .  The 
food's  improved,  but  the  wine  has  deteriorated.  He  knows 
such  odd  people,  too.  .  .  But  that's  his  mother's  fault; 
she  finds  good  in  every  one,  makes  a  boast  of  it.  Lord !  I 
don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  have  a  Monroe  doctrine  against 
rastaquoueres I" 

Madame  Pinto  de  Vasconcellos  and  Lady  Maitland  were 
being  wedged  into  place  by  their  maids,  while  their  husbands 
remained  on  the  platform  to  finish  their  cigars.  Eric  ap- 
peared with  Ivy  and  was  followed  by  Amy  Loring  and  Lady 
John  Carstairs,  later  by  Mrs.  O'Rane  and  her  husband. 

181 


1 82  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  going  to  be  here!,"  cried  Amy, 
as  she  caught  sight  of  Eric. 

"It's  not  too  late  for  me  to  go  back,  if  you'd  prefer  it." 
he  answered  with  a  smile.  "Carstairs  and  Gerry  have  de- 
cided that  it's  going  to  be  a  sticky  party." 

"Oh,  I  should  love  you  to  come.  .  ."  She  blew  a  kiss  to 
Ivy ;  but  a  frown  of  misgiving  settled  on  her  face  as  she  led 
Eric  away  from  the  carriage-door.  "You  know  John  Gay- 
mer's  invited  himself?  I'm  sure  it's  only  because  he  knows 
he'll  meet  Ivy.  .  .  I  do  hate  rows  and  intrigues  and  scenes 
and  schemings!" 

"I  don't  think  he'll  get  much  satisfaction  from  her,"  Eric 
answered  reassuringly. 

"I  hope  to  goodness  you're  right,"  said  Amy.  "Unfor- 
tunately, Johnny's  had  a  rebuff  recently  in  another  quar- 
ter. .  .  Some  actress,  I  believe.  .  .  Sonia  knows  the  whole 
story.  .  .  ." 

She  walked  to  and  fro  by  the  door,  gazing  anxiously  down 
the  platform;  then,  on  an  impulse,  she  took  O'Rane's  arm, 
whispered  in  his  ear  and  led  him  away  from  the  others. 

"Nothing  serious,  I  hope?,"  he  murmured. 

"Then  you  can  hear  there's  something  wrong!,"  she 
laughed.  "I  wish  people's  voices  told  me  as  much.  .  .  No, 
I  just  wanted  you  to  pull  the  party  together  as  much  as 
possible ;  it's  not  too  well  chosen,  and  poor  Bobbie  isn't  very 
clever  at  seeing  a  squall  until  he's  run  right  into  it.  Do 
you  remember  poor  Jim's  last  ball  at  Chepstow  on  the  eve 
of  the  war?  I  shall  never  forget  how  wonderful  you  were 
in  keeping  things  going  then.  So,  if  you  do  feel  a  storm 
brewing.  .  .?" 

O'Rane  nodded,  and  they  walked  back  to  rejoin  Eric.  The 
last  stragglers  were  being  urged  into  their  places  and  the 
doors  slammed,  when  her  eyes  opened  wider.  Looking  past 
her,  Eric  saw  a  man  in  the  light-blue  uniform  of  the  Air 
Force. 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  183 

"I  was  hoping  they'd  be  left  behind,"  murmured  Amy,  as 
she  got  into  the  carriage. 

"Who's  with  him?,"  Eric  asked. 

"Barbara,"  she  answered  shortly. 

"Some  one  told  me  she'd  gone  to  Ireland,"  he  said  in- 
differently. 

"No.  George  has  only  gone  for  two  days  on  business,  and 
she's  such  a  bad  sailor  that  she  preferred  to  stay  behind.  .  . 
My  dear  Babs,  you  nearly  lost  the  train !" 

A  leap,  a  scramble  and  the  support  of  anxious  hands 
landed  the  last-comers  in  safety,  as  the  platform  slid  from 
under  their  feet.  Barbara  felt  her  way  into  a  vacant  corner 
and  looked  round  to  see  who  was  in  the  carriage,  nodding 
easily  to  Eric  when  his  turn  came.  She  seemed  so  radiantly 
well  and  happy  that  he  wondered  whether  she  was  trying  to 
make  him  forget  the  damning  expression  of  tragedy  which 
he  had  seen  on  her  face  a  week  before.  The  train  was  not 
out  of  the  station  before  she  had  focussed  all  attention  on 
herself,  and  she  kept  the  carriage  in  amused  subjection  until 
the  journey's  end.  Once  or  twice  Eric  stole  a  glance  at  Ivy; 
but,  if  she  felt  shock  or  embarrassment  at  being  with 
Gaymer,  she  concealed  it  as  nonchalantly  as  he  did  and  lis- 
tened with  the  rest  to  Barbara's  picturesque  story  of  a 
luncheon  with  Gaymer,  the  theft  of  a  general's  car,  a  scheme 
for  flying  to  Croxton,  the  break-down  of  the  car,  the 
beguilement  of  a  taxi-driver  from  his  dinner  and  a  break- 
neck drive  to  a  barren  aerodrome  and  from  the  aerodrome 
to  Euston.  She  told  a  story  as  well  as  ever,  he  found, 
always  shewing  herself  in  the  absurdest  light ;  and  one  story 
followed  another  until  the  train  drew  in  to  Croxton. 

"I'm  so  glad  Lady  Barbara's  here,"  said  Ivy,  as  they 
secured  a  car  to  themselves. 

"She  always  makes  a  house-party  go  with  a  swing," 
answered  Eric.  "I  say,  Ivy,  if  Gaymer  gives  you  any  trouble, 
let  me  know.  I  don't  suppose  he  will.  .  .  But,  as  a  matter 


1 84  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

of  fact,  does  he  quite  appreciate  how  he  stands?  The  last 
time  you  and  he  were  together,  you  were  engaged  to  him. 
Have  you  ever  broken  off  the  engagement?" 

"Not  in  words.  Except  for  a  moment  at  Maidenhead,  I 
haven't  spoken  or  written  to  him  since  that  night.  And  I 
don't  want  to  now.  I  never  want  to  see  him  again.  If  he 
tried  to  talk  to  me — " 

"You  never  told  him  why  you  wanted  to  be  married 
without  waiting  for  him  to  be  demobilized?" 

Ivy's  cheeks  flamed,  and  she  turned  her  head  so  that  he 
should  not  see  her  face. 

"With  that  woman  there,  in  the  next  room?,"  she  cried. 
"I  wasn't  going  to  beg  for  mercy.  I  left  it  to  his  honour.  .  . 
And  then  I  told  him  he  hadn't  any  honour.  And  he  said 
that,  if  that  was  what  I  thought  of  him — " 

"Then  he  still  doesn't  know?.,"  Eric  persisted.  "If  he 
comes  and  makes  a  nuisance  of  himself,  are  you  going  to 
tell  him?" 

Ivy  shook  her  head  passionately : 

"No!  D'you  think  I'd  look  at  him,  if  he  begged  me  to? 
He  shall  see  that  I  don't  need  him.  .  ."  She  turned  suddenly 
with  a  look  of  pleading  in  her  eyes.  "Eric,  you  won't  make 
me  tell  him?" 

"Of  course  not!  Keep  out  of  his  way  as  much  as  pos- 
sible and  tell  him  that  you  simply  don't  want  to  talk  to  him. 
Don't  make  a  scene,  because  he's  probably  more  experienced 
in  scene-making  than  you  are." 

Though  Gaymer  had  sat  without  speaking  the  whole  way 
from  Euston,  a  feeling  of  tension,  first  experienced  in  ad- 
vance by  Amy  Loring,  gradually  spread  to  Eric  and  Ivy. 
In  spite  of  Barbara's  high  spirits,  uneasiness  developed 
slowly  into  an  antagonism  which  was  made  apparent  to  the 
sensitive  hearing  of  O'Rane  less  by  the  words  spoken  than 
by  the  significant  silences.  The  arrival  at  Croxton  Hall 
created  a  temporary  diversion.  As  Gaymer  quickly  dis- 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  185 

appeared  into  the  smoking-room  on  learning  that  he  would 
find  whisky  and  soda  there,  Eric  was  spared  all  danger  of 
conflict  with  him.  Ivy  went  at  once  to  her  room  and  only 
reappeared  under  the  protection  of  Amy  Loring;  Barbara 
was  caught  and  retained  at  the  bridge-table  until  the  dressing- 
gong  sounded.  Despite  the  sombre  forebodings  of  Degan- 
way  and  Carstairs,  Eric  began  to  feel  that  the  week-end 
might  pass  without  mishap,  though  he  wished  fervently,  as 
he  bathed  and  dressed,  that  it  was  the  last  night  of  his  visit 
instead  of  the  first. 

When  they  went  in  to  dinner,  he  was  so  much  preoccupied 
with  looking  to  see  who  was  on  either  side  of  Ivy  that  he 
did  not  notice  at  first  that  he  had  himself  been  placed  next 
to  Barbara.  The  discovery  that  she  was  within  a  foot  of  him 
steadied  his  nerves  like  the  first  bomb  in  an  air-raid.  For 
half  of  the  meal  he  talked  with  composure  to  Lady  Pentyre; 
then  turned  and  tossed  Barbara  the  shuttlecock  of  their  con- 
versation, leaving  her  to  shew  whether  she  was  content  with 
safe  impersonalities  or  whether  she  was  still  bound  to  im- 
provize  a  romantic  drama  out  of  their  meeting. 

"Lady  Pentyre's  just  been  telling  me  that  my  bedroom's 
supposed  to  be  haunted,"  he  began.  "She's  offered  me 
another,  without  a  bathroom,  but  I  told  her  that  all  the  ghost- 
proof  rooms  in  the  world  aren't  compensation  for  the  ex- 
clusive possession  of  a  bath." 

"I  suppose  you've  got  my  old  room,"  said  Barbara  re- 
flectively. "I  came  here,  the  winter  before  the  war,  for  the 
Croxton  Ball.  .  .  Lady  Pentyre  offered  it  to  me  again, 
but.  .  .  I  thought  I'd  leave  it  to  some  one  who  didn't  take 
quite  so  many  ghosts  with  him  wherever  he  went.  .  ."  She 
shivered  almost  imperceptibly  as  she  looked  round  the  room, 
pretending  an  interest  in  ill-executed  portraits  of  mediocre 
Pentyres,  none  of  whom  achieved  higher  rank  than  that  of 
colonel,  commander  or  dean.  "It  was  here.  .  .  I  told  you 
the  story.  .  .  the  first  time  you  ever  dined  with  me.  .  .  as 


1 86          THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

soon  as  I  knew  that  you  were  a  friend  of  Jack's.  I  had  to 
get  it  off  my  conscience." 

"I  don't  think  I've  been  here  since  Bobbie's  coming-of- 
age,"  Eric  answered.  "Several  of  us  motored  over  from 
Oxford:  Deganway,  Sinclair,  Raney,  Summertown.  .  . 
That  loving-cup  on  the  side-table;  I  believe  you'll  find  all 
our  names  on  it — a  joint  present  from  all  the  other  members 
of  the  old  Phoenix  Club.  There  are  none  too  many  of 
them  left  now,"  he  added  with  a  sigh.  "It  doesn't  do  to  let 
yourself  see  ghosts.  .  .  ." 

Barbara  was  .paying  as  little  attention  to  the  history  of 
the  loving-cup  as  he  had  paid  to  her  reflections  on  the  haunted 
room.  It  was  evident  now  that  she  was  preparing  some  kind 
of  dramatic  scene ;  and,  though  her  talent  was  hampered  by 
the  presence  of  others,  he  would  not  give  her  a  chance  of 
playing  a  part  that  she  might  continue  later  in  less  publicity. 
Eric  was  not  likely  to  forget  the  first  time  that  he  dined 
with  her:  with  evenly  balanced  triumph  and  consternation 
she  had  described  her  long  and  still  unended  duel  with  his 
best  friend.  Jack  Waring,  it  seemed,  had  snubbed  her,  and 
she  took  her  revenge  by  making  him  fall  in  love  with  her ; 
when  he  proposed,  she  refused  him  because  he  was  not  a 
Catholic ;  when  he  became  a  Catholic,  she  refused  him  again 
and  then,  in  superstitious  terror  that  she  was  imperilling  a 
man's  soul,  swore  that  she  would  marry  him  whenever  he 
asked  her  again.  Eric  was  unlikely  to  forget  that  dinner 
because  it  was  almost  the  first  skirmish  in  the  long  campaign 
by  which  Barbara  set  herself  to  make  him  too  fall  in  love 
with  her;  and,  when  she  had  succeeded  only  too  well,  they 
discovered  that  her  oath  to  Jack  Waring  still  kept  them 
apart. 

"It  doesn't  do.  .  .!"  Barbara  echoed.  "You  can't  always 
help  it.  .  .  I  think  of  the  last  time  I  was  here.  .  .  and  now ! 
When  I  believed  in  God,  I  often  used  to  think  what  fun  He 
must  be  having  with  me!" 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  187 

"I  can't  think  God  spends  much  time  making  people 
unhappy,"  said  Eric.  "They  do  it  so  well  for  themselves. 
He  has  only  to  create  a  little  egotism.  .  .  ." 

Barbara  crumbled  her  bread  in  silence,  waiting  to  assure 
herself  that  they  were  not  being  overheard. 

"You  still  think  it  was  egotism  that  kept  me  from  marry- 
ing you,  Eric?  It  wasn't.  Fear,  if  you  like ;  superstition.  .  . 
I  had  promised  Jack,  I  was  ready  to  stand  all  my  life  bare- 
foot in  the  snow,  waiting  for  him  to  forgive  me.  .  .  I  loved 
you,  as  I've  never  loved  any  one  before  or  since;  you  know 
that.  But  you  wouldn't  wait.  It  would  have  been  a  terribly 
easy  way  out.  .  .  when  I  wanted  to.  .  .  The  night  after 
you  said  good-bye  I  telephoned  to  Jack,  I  asked  him  to  come 
and  see  me.  .  .  D'you  remember  abusing  me  because  I  was 
vain?  I  hadn't  much  vanity  then,  Eric.  As  soon  as  Jack 
recognized  my  voice — it  was  the  first  time  we'd  spoken  alone 
since  his  release  from  Germany,  since  the  war,  since  that 
ghastly  night  when  I  swore  on  the  Cross  that,  if  he  wanted 
me,  I'd  marry  him — he  hung  up  the  receiver.  And  then  I 
knew  at  last.  .  .  It  may  interest  you  to  hear  that  my  famous 
pride  was  still  flourishing  so  vigorously  next  morning  that  I 
drove  round  to  your  flat  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed.  They  told 
me  you'd  started  for  Liverpool.  I  didn't  know  your  ship, 
or  I'd  have  come  on  board." 

It  might  be  morbid  luxury  of  self-torture — Eric  had  lived 
through  his  own  nights  and  days  of  might-have-beens — ,  or 
a  despairing  effort  to  recapture  him,  or  a  blend  of  the  two, 
or  a  connoisseur's  appreciation  of  dramatic  irony;  impulse 
and  calculation,  sincerity  and  sensationalism  were  always 
curiously  intermixed  with  Barbara. 

"It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference,"  he  answered 
coldly.  "Superstition,  if  you  like.  .  .  Or  vanity.  .  .  I 
knew  that  night  that  you  put  something  in  life  before  love. 
You  were  afraid  of  Jack,  but  you  never  pretended  to  be  in 
love  with  him.  .  .  However,  I  don't  think  these  post 


188  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

mortems  do  any  good.  Amy  Loring  tells  me  that  George  is 
in  Ireland.  Is  it  true  that  he's  selling  his  place  there?" 

"He  would,  if  he  could  find  any  one  to  buy  it.  We  haven't 
very  much  money.  You  see,  I  forfeited  mine  by  marrying 
a  Protestant  and  I  don't  care  to  go  to  my  family.  .  .  We 
may  as  well  have  it  out,  Eric.  I  married  him — dear  God! 
I'd  have  married  any  one  who  spoke  a  kind  word  to  me  when 
you  went  away.  .  .  I'm  trying  to  make  him  happy,  I'm 
trying  to  make  amends  to  every  one  I've  injured,  but  it's 
rather  a  long  list." 

"I  hardly  know  Ireland  at  all,"  Eric  continued  in  disregard 
of  his  emotional  cue.  "He  invited  me  to  Lake  House  years 
ago,  but  I  couldn't  afford  the  time.  .  .  ." 

Barbara  nodded  mechanically,  by  now  unconscious  that 
he  was  trying  to  head  her  off  reminiscent  dissection,  hardly 
conscious  that  he  had  spoken. 

"It's  not  quite  what  I  expected  of  life,"  she  murmured 
humbly.  "But  you.  .  .  Are  you  happy,  Eric  ?" 

"Perfectly,  thank  you." 

"I'm  glad.  Time's  a  wonderful  healer.  I  always  told 
you  to  go  away  and  forget  me.  You  said  you  couldn't." 

"I  haven't  forgotten,  but  I've  adjusted  some  of  my  values." 

Barbara  stole  a  glance  at  him  and  then  looked  away,  with 
eyes  narrowed  in  pain,  over  the  head  of  the  man  opposite 
her,  over  the  shoulders  of  the  footman,  blankly  and  dizzily 
into  the  shadows  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

"Until  humanity  has  no  value  at  all.  .  ."  she  whispered. 
"Ah,  Eric.  .  .  If  I  could  wipe  it  all  out  and  draw  a  sponge 
over  your  memory  so  that  we  met  as  we  met  that  first  evening 
at  Margaret  Poynter's,  if  I  could  make  you  loving,  tender — 
not  to  me,  God  knows ! — ,  if  I  could  cure  your  bitterness  of 
spirit  and  teach  you  not  to  condemn  all  women  because  one 
woman  once  wrecked  your  life.  .  .  Eric,  if  you  could  see 
yourself  as  I  still  see  you  that  first  night.  .  .  like  a  faun, 
with  big  startled  eyes.  .  ,"  She  found  her  Toice  rising  and 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  189 

stopped  abruptly.  "I  think  Lady  Pentyre  told  me  it  was 
the  ghost  of  a  woman  who'd  been  killed  in  the  Civil  War. 
You're  not  afraid  of  ghosts?" 

"Like  everything  else,  they  have  to  be  faced  boldly." 

There  was  a  moment's  deepening  silence,  and  Lady 
Pentyre  caught  the  eyes  of  the  women.  It  was  only  when 
he  was  free  from  the  tension  of  Barbara's  presence  that  Eric 
realized  her  power.  No  other  woman  set  his  nerves  tingling 
and  his  blood  racing  through  his  veins,  and  no  other  woman 
responded  to  him  as  Barbara  did.  When  she  flung  her  crude 
emotionalism  at  him,  he  was  still  never  sure  of  himself;  a 
very  little  more  would  go  to  his  head.  .  .  He  looked  round 
the  table,  counting  the  empty  chairs  and  calculating  the 
dinners  that  he  had  still  to  eat;  with  reasonable  luck  Lady 
Pentyre  would  not  put  him  next  to  her  for  another  meal. 

A  hand  was  laid  on  his  knee,  and  he  found  O'Rane  trying 
to  speak  to  him.  Pentyre  and  Gaymer  were  arguing  with 
irritating  heat  about  some  trivial  and  forgotten  aspect  of 
the  war,  and  it  was  difficult  for  any  one  else  to  make  his 
voice  heard. 

"Our  intrepid  airman  is  becoming  the  least  little  bit  of 
a  nuisance,"  murmured  O'Rane.  "I  thought  he  was  a  bit 
thick  when  he  got  into  the  train  at  Huston,  though  he  didn't 
say  much.  I  shall  have  to  take  him  in  hand;  he  used  to  be 
quite  a  nice  boy." 

Eric's  attention  had  wandered  until  he  was  hardly  con- 
scious of  his  surroundings. 

"I.  .  .  scarcely  know  him,"  he  answered. 

"You'll  find  him  worth  cultivating.  .  .  when  you've  over- 
come your  dislike  of  him,"  said  O'Rane  with  a  softly  ma- 
licious laugh. 

Gaymer's  voice  could  be  heard  growing  in  assertiveness ; 
and,  though  Pentyre  interrupted  from  time  to  time,  his 
resistance  gradually  weakened  until  he  faint-heartedly  cut 


i9o  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

his  opponent  short  by  suggesting  to  General  Maitland  and 
Don  Pinto  that  they  should  all  go  into  the  drawing-room. 

"Strategic  retreat,"  commented  Gaymer  in  thick  scorn. 

He  was  flushed  and  combative,  but  still  master  of  himself ; 
and,  as  he  crossed  the  hall  and  entered  the  drawing-room, 
his  manner  changed.  Eric  watched  him  being  absorbed  into 
a  bridge- four  with  the  Maitlands  and  Barbara;  the  rubber 
ended  without  unpleasantness,  and  he  began  to  wonder 
whether  he  had  not  imagined  all  the  tension  which  he  seemed 
to  feel  from  the  moment  when  he  caught  sight  of  Barbara 
and  Gaymer  hurrying  along  the  platform.  It  was  difficult 
to  see  what  either  of  them  could  do;  Barbara  had  already 
played  her  scene  and  had  not  been  encouraged  to  repeat  it; 
Gaymer  had  hardly  spoken  to  Ivy,  and  he  could  see  that  she 
was  taking  pains  never  to  be  left  alone.  .  . 

It  might  be  nothing  but  coincidence  that  they  were  all 
meeting  in  the  same  house,  but  Eric  did  not  want  a  single- 
handed  encounter  with  a  man  whose  hostility  had  been  latent 
ever  since  their  first  meeting  three  years  before.  When  the 
women  went  up  to  bed,  he  only  stayed  in  the  smoking-room 
long  enough  to  choose  a  book.  Gaymer  threw  him  an  abrupt 
but  not  uncivil  "good-night,"  and  he  walked  upstairs  with 
vague,  tired  relief  that  he  had  survived  the  first  evening 
without  altercation.  There  was  a  note  on  his  dressing-table: 
"Good-night,  beloved.  Sleep  well.  God  bless  you.  Ivy." 
He  smiled  and  began  to  undress.  At  the  end  of  the  passage 
he  heard  doors  shutting;  as  he  got  into  bed,  there  was  a 
slow  clatter  on  the  stairs,  followed  by  "Good-night,  Pentyre," 
"Good-night,  General.  You're  sure  you've  everything  you 
want?"  There  followed  a  belated  "good-night"  in  the  un- 
mistakable clipped  utterance  of  Don  Pinto  de  Vasconcellos. 
Half-an-hour  later  Eric  heard  O'Rane  and  Gaymer  coming 
up  and  separating,  with  suppressed  chuckles,  outside  his 
door ;  their  footsteps  grew  faint,  and  in  another  moment  the 
house  sank  into  silence. 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  191 

Feeling  too  tired  to  begin  a  new  book,  Eric  turned  out 
the  light  and  was  settling  himself  comfortably  in  bed  when 
he  saw  a  square  outline  of  yellow  round  the  door  of  the 
bathroom.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  with  a  murmur 
of  annoyance,  when  the  door  opened  slowly  and  he  saw  a 
tall  figure  in  a  loose  white  wrap.  For  a  startled,  uncertain 
moment  he  remembered  Lady  Pentyre's  warning  that  the 
room  was  haunted  and  Barbara's  addition  that  the  visitant 
was  a  woman  who  had  been  killed  in  the  Civil  War.  While 
he  did  not  believe  in  ghosts,  his  hand  explored  nervously  for 
the  electric-light  switch;  some  one  might  be  playing  a  prac- 
tical joke,  but  Pentyre  was  still  unable  to  walk  without 
crutches,  and  Gaymer  had  barely  had  time  to  get  to  his  own 
room.  Possibly — he  had  forgotten  or  neglected  the  geo- 
graphy of  the  house — some  one  had  mistaken  his  door. 

"Hullo?" 

"Eric!" 

It  was  Barbara's  voice ;  and  his  hand  trembled  as  it  turned 
the  switch.  Her  hair  rippled  in  waves  over  her  shoulders; 
her  eyes  shone  burningly,  and  the  fingers  that  held  the  wrap 
together  were  shaking;  with  the  other  hand  she  clung  for 
support  to  the  edge  of  the  door.  Eric  saw  that  her  face  was 
colourless,  that  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  her  quick  breath- 
ing ;  as  she  took  a  step  forward,  he  noticed  that  her  feet  were 
bare  and  thrust  hurriedly  into  slippers  trodden  down  at  the 
heel;  and,  as  she  moved,  the  dumb  paralysis  of  surprise 
left  him. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here?/'  he  cried. 

"Hush!  Eric.  .  .  I  was  afraid  one  of  the  others  might 
come  in,  so  I  waited.  I  thought  they'd  never  go  to  bed.  .  . 
Eric,  you  think  I've  done  you  a  great  wrong — I  have!  I 
admit  it! — But,  if  I  can't  undo  the  harm  I've  done.  .  ." 

Her  eyes  and  voice,  her  stumbling  steps  and  trembling 
outstretched  arms  shewed  that  she  had  forgotten  everything 
but  a  consuming  need  of  him.  Eric  had  never  before  seen 


192  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

a  woman  lose  all  control  of  herself,  he  had  never  imagined 
that  Barbara  was  capable  of  such  desperation;  the  madness 
in  her  eyes  and  the  delirium  of  her  mood  appalled  him. 

"My  God,  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Barbara?"  he  whis- 
pered. "And  what  d'you  take  me  for  ?  Your  husband — " 

"I'll  leave  him  and  come  to  you !  We'll  go  away  together ! 
You  once  said — d'you  remember  when  I  dined  with  you  in 
an  air-raid  ? — you  said  you'd  rather  a  bomb  hit  the  house  and 
killed  us  both  than  see  me  married  to  any  one  else!  I'm 
here.  .  .  And  I'm  blind  with  misery,  Eric.  I  want  to  be 
happy.  I  want  to  make  you  happy.  No  one  need  know.  .  . 
Or,  if  you  like,  you  can  let  every  one  know.  I've  made  my 
mistake,  I'll  tell  George,  I'll  ask  him  to  forgive  me.  He 
won't  want  to  keep  me,  when  he  knows  I  don't  love  him.  We 
can  go  away  for  a  time — " 

She  was  creeping  inch  by  inch  nearer  to  him,  and  Eric 
suddenly  felt  the  touch  of  dry  and  burning  ringers  on  his 
wrist. 

"Stop  this  nonsense!,"  he  cried,  shrinking  back. 

The  grating  harshness  of  tone  sobered  her  a  little.  She 
did  not  try  to  touch  him  again,  he  could  see  her  mentally 
preparing  a  retreat,  an  escape,  a  means  of  saving  her  face, 
if  he  finally  repelled  her ;  he  could  see,  too,  that  she  did  not 
mean  to  be  lightly  repelled. 

"You  usedn't  to  call  my  love  'nonsense'  in  old  days,"  she 
answered  quietly. 

"Things  have  changed." 

"Your  love  has  changed." 

"My  love  is  dead." 

"And  you  used  to  say  that  I  must  marry  you,  because  I'd 
spoiled  all  other  women  for  you." 

Eric  nodded  slowly.  It  was  so  characteristic  of  her  to 
remember  and  quote,  even  at  the  most  critical  moment  of 
her  life,  a  dog's-eared  phrase  of  extravagant  adulation. 

"Yes.     And  I  might  add  that  you've  spoilt  me  for  all 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  193 

other  women.  If  one  came  to  me  now  without  blemish, 
straight  from  the  right  hand  of  the  Creator,  I  should  expect 
to  find  treachery  or  ingratitude.  .  .  Will  you  please  go 
back  to  your  room  ?" 

He  was  thankful  that  he  had  stopped  without  saying  more. 
In  her  craving  for  new  sensations,  Barbara  had  some  per- 
verted strain  which  made  her  enjoy  being  scourged  by  the 
tongue  of  a  man  who  loved  her ;  and  in  another  moment  he 
would  have  said  something  which  would  enable  her  to  put 
him  in  the  wrong;  and  anything  that  he  said  gave  her  an 
excuse  for  staying.  .  .  . 

"I've  never  tried  to  defend  myself,  Eric.  You  were 
right.  .  .  You  were  always  right.  Isn't  there  room  in  life 
for  mistakes?" 

"There's  sometimes  no  room  to  repair  them." 

"You're  still  thinking  of  George?" 

"It's  time  one  of  us  did,  Lady  Barbara.  .  .  I  try  to  treat 
other  men's  wives  as  I  should  expect  other  men  to  treat 
mine." 

He  reached  for  his  dressing-gown  and  slipped  his  arms 
into  the  sleeves.  When  it  was  too  late,  he  saw  that  for  a 
moment  he  was  putting  himself  at  her  mercy ;  in  that  moment 
she  sprang  forward  and  pinioned  him: 

"Eric!" 

"Will  you  kindly  let  go  and  will  you  kindly  leave  my 
room  ?" 

"Eric,  you're  going  to  marry  that  child!  You  must  be 
mad!  You'll  be  as  miserable  as  I  am.  .  .  If  you  do  that, 
it  will  be  too  late.  .  .  Eric,  don't  struggle,  you're  hurting 
me.  .  .  Listen!  I've  told  you  it  was  a  mistake,  but  it's 
not  too  late  to  put  it  right.  We  were  made  for  each  other. 
You  wouldn't  be  blamed,  and  I — I  should  glory  in  it.  .  . 
Listen !  You  shall  listen !  The  other  day  I  was  at  a  party, 
and  a  man  I  don't  know  said,  'That  woman  looks  as  if  she'd 
been  through  Hell.'  They'll  say  of  us  that  we're  in  Heaven. 


194  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

They'll  try  to  attack  us — and  they  won't  be  able  to.  We 
shall  be  in  the  clouds,  we  shall  be  walking  on  air.  People 
who  see  us  will  go  away  hungry  and  envious.  Eric,  you 
remember  what  it  was  like  before  that  awful  parting!  1 
lived  for  you,  and  you  lived  for  me.  Everything  we  did  and 
thought.  .  .  Whenever  we  were  ill  or  unhappy.  .  .  There's 
never  been  a  love  like  ours ;  and,  if  I  didn't  see  it,  I  see  it 
now.  God  punished  me  to  shew  me  what  I  was  throwing 
away.  .  .  You  know  what  this  last  year  has  been,  Eric; 
if  you  threw  away  your  chance  of  happiness — Ah,  you're 
hurting  me!" 

He  had  wrenched  himself  free  of  her  embrace  and  sprung 
out  of  bed.  Barbara  fell  forward  with  her  face  on  the 
pillow.  He  listened  for  the  silence  to  be  broken :  though  she 
had  never  raised  her  voice  above  a  whisper,  it  had  vibrated 
with  passion  until  he  fancied  that  it  must  ring  and  echo 
through  the  house.  He  opened  the  door,  took  a  step  forward 
into  the  warm  darkness  of  the  passage  and  listened.  When 
he  came  back,  the  room  seemed  to  be  filled  with  the  keen 
scent  of  carnations.  He  saw  Barbara  slowly  raising  her  head 
and  brushing  back  the  hair  which  had  fallen  over  her  face; 
she  looked  distractedly  round  the  room  through  half -closed 
eyes  and  threw  out  her  arms  to  him ;  then  she  saw  the  open 
door,  and  her  arms  dropped  to  her  sides. 

"This  is  a  funny  way  for  it  to  end,"  she  murmured.  Eric 
said  nothing.  "I  used  to  believe  you,  too.  I  thought  you 
cared  for  me.  .  .  ." 

His  silence  daunted  her,  and  she  walked  out  of  the  room 
with  a  sigh  and  a  half  shrug. 

"'  Eric  locked  the  door  and  began  filling  a  pipe.  Then  he 
turned  on  all  the  lights  and  explored  bedroom  and  bathroom 
on  hands  and  knees.  On  the  middle  of  the  floor  he  found  a 
crumpled  handkerchief,  scented  with  carnation;  he  fingered 
it  irresolutely,  then  struck  a  match  and  tossed  it  flaming  into 
the  grate.  Imagination  or  reality  still  scented  the  room  with 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  195 

carnation,  and  he  threw  open  the  curtains,  resting  his  arms, 
on  the  stone  sill  of  the  window  and  leaning  out  into  a  starless 
night.  A  heavy  dew  was  rising,  and  the  stone  was  sticky  with 
moisture.  The  scent  of  carnations  changed  to  a  scent  of 
stocks;  then  the  reek  of  his  own  pipe  drowned  both.  He 
was  wakeful  but  calm,  surprised  at  his  own  calmness  before 
and  now. 

He  wondered  what  Barbara  was  doing.  .  .  . 

He  wondered  what  she  would  do  at  their  next  meeting. 
Presumably  she  would  invent  a  letter  from  George  in  the 
morning,  calling  her  to  Ireland,  or  recalling  her  to  Loodon, 
but  they  would  meet  later.  A  man,  after  such  a  misfire, 
would  surely  go  abroad  for  a  year  or  two;  woman  seemed 
to  lie  about  these  things  to  others — ("Eric  Lane  was  staying 
with  the  Pentyres.  You  know  he  used  to  be  rather  in  love 
with  me  ?  I'm  afraid  he  still  is,  though  I  should  have  thought 
that,  when  I  married,  he'd  have  faced  facts.  .  .  I  wish  he'd 
find  some  nice  girl.  .  .  Connie  Maitland's  little  niece  was 
there,  but  she's  hardly  out  of  the  nursery.  .  .") — until  they 
could  lie  about  them  to  themselves ;  in  a  few  years  Barbara 
would  convince  herself  that  he  had  broken  down  the  locked 
door  of  her  bedroom  and  entreated  her  to  run  away  with 
him.  Women  could  make  themselves  believe  anything,  when 
they  had  to  save  their  faces,  to  ignore  a  rebuff  and  keep  up 
their  value  in  the  sex-market.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  a 
man  did  not  always  retire  to  decent  obscurity ;  he  sometimes 
came,  like  John  Gaymer,  officer  and  gentleman,  and  stayed 
in  the  same  house  as  the  girl  whom  he  had  seduced  and 
deserted.  Seemliness  of  conduct,  seemliness  of  feeling  were 
dead.  .  .  . 

Sleep  was  impossible;  and  he  remembered  with  gratitude 
how  Lady  Pentyre  had  arranged  for  him  to  work  undis- 
turbed. She  had  m.ade  a  literary  picture  of  a  preoccupied, 
irregular  genius  who  wrote  under  the  attack  of  fitful  in- 
spiration; breakfast  would  come  when  he  rang  for  it:  he 


196  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

was  not  expected,  he  was  almost  forbidden,  to  shew  himself 
before  luncheon ;  and,  if  he  wanted  to  work  during  the 
night,  there  awaited  him  a  touching  equipment  of  electric 
stove,  spirit-lamp,  cocoa,  biscuits,  and  cold  chicken.  Eric 
went  into  the  dressing-room  and  surveyed  with  a  smile  her 
solicitous  array  of  stationery ;  there  was  paper  big  and  small, 
plain  and  ruled,  there  were  pencils  and  pens,  india-rubber, 
paper-fasteners  and  a  chromatic  riot  of  ink  and  sealing-wax. 
He  unlocked  his  despatch-box  and  glanced  at  a  bundle  of 
manuscript ;  a  character  called  Beatrice  seemed  to  be  speak- 
ing, but  he  read  the  name  as  Barbara ;  and  the  lines  that  he 
had  given  her  were  overlaid  as  in  a  palimpsest  by  the  words 
that  Barbara  had  spoken,  was  still  speaking.  .  .  . 

He  wondered  what  she  was  doing.  .  .  . 

Work  was  out  of  the  question  until  he  had  thought  a  little 
more  about  Barbara.  However  far  she  fell,  there  was  always 
a  lower  depth.  He  imagined  that  she  had  reached  her  own 
limits  in  marrying  George,  but  she  was  prepared  to  be  faith- 
less even  to  him,  she  was  already  faithless  in  spirit.  Barbara 
was  too  young  and  ardent  of  soul  to  exist  without  loving  and 
being  loved ;  it  was  a  question  of  time  before  she  joined  the 
furtive,  unsatisfied  band  of  women  who  lived  in  more  or 
less  open  infidelity;  she  would  go  from  one  to  another, 
encouraging  George  to  do  the  same  so  that  he  would  have 
less  cause  for  reproaching  her. 

And  three  years  earlier  she  had  seemed  to  walk  clothed 
in  a  white  flame  of  purity.  Was  it  another  pose,  like  her 
extravagant  talk  of  devotion,  gratitude,  honour,  sacrifice? 
Her  romantic  emotions  and  phrases  were  culled  from  Italian 
operas  and  sentimental  novels ;  and  she  treated  them  seri- 
ously. He  told  her  once  that  she  lived  in  "the  hall  of  a 
thousand  mirrors",  donning  and  discarding  the  dress  and 
properties  of  a  character,  watching  her  reflection,  posturing, 
mouthing  her  lines — until  the  personality  of  Barbara  Neave 
lost  outline  and  became  a  lay  figure  for  the  clothes  of  others. 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  197 

Her  own  form  and  stature  did  not  satisfy  her ;  she  must  be 
Isolde,  Sarah  Curran,  Mrs.  Blessington,  Joan  of  Arc,  Lady 
Hamilton  and,  at  a  pinch,  Messalina;  which  part  she  played 
hardly  mattered  to  her.  .  .  She  was  without  a  sense  of  right 
and  wrong.  .  .  A  sensationalist,  as  Jim  Loring  called  her 
while  she  was  playing  with  Jack,  before  she  began  to  play 
with  him.  .  .  or  George.  .  .  An  emotion-hunter.  .  .  . 

The  night  was  paling  to  a  grey-blue,  and  the  dawn  brought 
with  it  a  chill  wind.  Eric  found  his  body  shivering  and  his 
fingers  stiff.  He  looked  lazily  at  the  array  of  food,  too 
tired  to  eat  or  drink;  then  he  got  into  bed  and  once  more 
turned  out  the  light.  Was  Barbara  asleep  yet?  .  .  .  Apart 
from  everything  else,  what  a  fool  the  girl  was  to  run  such 
risks!  If  Lady  Pentyre  had  looked  into  her  empty  room,  if 
one  of  the  men  had  come  to  finish  a  cigar  on  the  end  of 
his  bed!  .  .  . 

He  rang  for  his  tea  at  noon  and  looked  curiously  through 
his  letters.  There  were  ten  loving  words  from  Ivy,  who 
disdained  concealment  from  the  servants,  but  he  sought  in 
vain  for  any  note  from  Barbara.  Perhaps  he  was  foolish  to 
expect  one,  for  she  knew  that  she  could  trust  him  to  hold 
his  tongue.  The  thorough-paced  anarchist  always  expected 
the  police  to  protect  him  from  the  violence  of  an  enraged 
mob.  ,  .  . 

It  was  a  shock,  after  he  fancied  that  he  had  diagnosed  her 
so  exhaustively,  to  find  an  unsuspected  depth  of  impudence. 
When  Eric  went  into  the  garden  before  luncheon,  he  was 
astounded  to  find  her  reading  under  a  tree.  The  others 
were  working  or  playing  golf ;  but  she  hailed  him  and  ex- 
plained that  she  had  stayed  behind  with  a  head-ache.  Her 
manner  was  free  of  challenge  or  appeal;  she  did  not  invite 
him  to  play  the  accomplice;  there  seemed  nothing  to  hide, 
and  in  all  the  time  -that  he  had  known  her  he  had  never 
understood  her  less  than  when  she  lay  in  white  skirt  and 
knitted  silk  coat,  bare-headed  and  bare-armed,  smoking 


I98  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

cigarettes  and  turning  the  pages  of  a  book  which  she  was 
too  indolent  to  cut.  Her  movements  and  expression  were 
gently  provocative,  as  though  she  were  trying  to  tantalize  him. 

"I  wonder — ,"  he  began  and  stopped  abruptly. 

"Yes?" 

Eric  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  half  away.  He 
was  wondering  where  and  what  Barbara  would  be  in  five, 
ten,  twenty  years'  time,  wondering  why  he  had  ever  been 
in  love  with  her,  why  she  still  attracted  him  and  why  he  could 
not  bear  to  touch  or  look  at  her. 

"I  was  wondering  how  far  it  was  to  the  links.  I  thought 
I'd  go  and  meet  the  others.  They  must  have  finished  playing 
by  now." 

"I  think  I  shall  stay  here,"  she  answered  lazily.  "It's 
cooler." 

Eric  sauntered  across  the  lawn  and  through  the  garden, 
stopping  for  a  moment  to  speak  with  Lady  Pentyre  and 
Madame  Pinto  de  Vasconcellos,  who  were  cutting  roses. 
He  sauntered  into  a  wood  and  sat  down  on  a  stile  command- 
ing the  pathway  to  the  links.  There  was  a  sprawling  group 
by  the  eighteenth  green,  and  he  identified  O'Rane,  Pentyre 
and  the  general.  They  were  joined  by  a  foursome,  and  he 
gradually  distinguished  Amy  Loring  and  Ivy,  Gaymer  and 
Mrs.  O'Rane.  The  sprawling  figures  straightened  them- 
selves, O'Rane  collected  the  clubs  of  the  women,  and  the 
party  ranged  itself  in  single  file  and  threaded  its  way  along 
the  foot-path  towards  the  wood.  Eric  had  been  thinking  so 
much  of  Barbara  during  the  last  twelve  hours  that  he  had 
not  troubled  about  Gaymer,  but,  as  they  drew  near,  he  looked 
closely  at  Ivy  for  signs  of  annoyance  or  distress.  She  was 
frowning  a  little,  but  it  might  have  been  a  frown  of  fatigue, 
and  her  face  cleared  at  sight  of  him. 

"How  did  you  all  get  on?,"  he  asked. 

"Lady  Amy  and   I  were  beaten  at  the  last  hole,"   Ivy 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  199 

answered.  "Give  me  a  hand  over  the  stile,  Eric;  I've  blis- 
tered my  foot." 

"All  well?,"  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"Ye-es,"  she  answered  doubtfully.  "I  had  one  bad 
moment.  He — you  know — came  up  and  pretended  to  look 
for  my  ball.  He  told  me  that  he  wanted  to  have  five  min- 
utes' talk  with  me  some  time;  he  said  he'd  invited  himself 
here  specially  for  that.  I  told  him  as  politely  as  I  could 
that  I  never  wanted  to  speak  to  him  again." 

"What  happened  then?,"  asked  Eric. 

"He  said  it  would  take  less  than  five  minutes.  I  said  it 
could  do  no  good.  He  said  that  I  couldn't  tell  till  I  knew 
what  he  was  going  to  say.  .  .  Then  I  said,  'If  I  give  you 
five  minutes,  will  you  promise  not  to  bother  me  ever  again  ?'  " 

Eric  found  his  eyebrows  involuntarily  rising  in  uneasy 
wonder.  Ivy  had  shewn  herself  so  much  less  valiant  with 
Gaymer  than  she  had  boasted  beforehand ;  she  seemed  to  be 
cowed  by  him,  so  that  she  bargained  and  begged  for  mercy 
instead  of  standing  up  for  herself. 

"And  then?" 

"Well,  he  wouldn't  promise.  He  just  repeated  'Will  you 
give  me  five  minutes?'  I  told  him  I'd  think  it  over.  Eric, 
can't  you  explain — ?" 

He  shook  his  head  quickly : 

"No,  my  dear !  You  can  refuse  to  see  him,  if  you  think 
it'll  upset  you ;  or  you  can  see  him  and  tell  him  that  every- 
thing's over." 

"Eric,  he  frightens  me !" 

"But  you'll  have  to  get  over  that.  Unless  you  fight  him 
and  beat  him,  you'll  be  troubled  whenever  he  chooses  to 
make  a  nuisance  of  himself  to  you.  When  you've  convinced 
yourself  that  he  has  no  more  influence  over  you,  he'll  go 
away  and  leave  you  in  peace.  You'd  better  see  him,  but  you 
mustn't  let  him  bully  you." 

Ivy  sighed  and  walked  in  silence  to  the  house.    At  luncheon 


200  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Lady  Pentyre  began  to  make  suggestions  for  disposing  of 
her  guests :  if  they  did  not  all  know  Melbury  Cathedral,  she 
said,  they  ought  to  take  this  opportunity  of  seeing  it.  It 
was  only  an  hour's  run  in  the  car ;  they  could  have  tea  there, 
drive  on  to  Wilmington  Abbey  and  be  back  in  time  for 
dinner. 

"Or,  if  you  want  to  laze,"  she  added,  "there  are  the  two 
punts.  .  .  ." 

"That  sounds  more  like  me,"  said  Gaymer.  "Iry,  what 
do  you  say  to  exploring  ?" 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  Eric  gave  her  no  lead. 

"I  don't  mind  what  I  do,"  she  answered. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  put  in  a  little  work,"  Eric  told  Lady 
Pentyre. 

An  hour  later  he  watched  the  party  dispersing.  Amy 
Loring  had  undertaken  to  punt  O'Rane  to  Croxton  for  tea ; 
and,  if  he  still  entertained  doubts  of  Gaymer,  he  was  re- 
assured at  feeling  that  Ivy  would  have  help  within  call. 
General  Maitland  and  Carstairs  retired  to  their  rooms  with 
letters  to  answer;  the  others  drove  away  in  the  car. 

"We  shall  be  back  for  tea,"  Ivy  announced  with  an  air  of 
summoning  witnesses.  "I  promised  to  help  Aunt  Connie 
with  her  letters." 

Eric  went  to  his  room  and  tried  to  write,  but  his  broken 
night  and  the  flooding  heat  of  the  afternoon  sun  made  him 
drowsy.  He  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  and  awoke  with  a  start 
to  find  Ivy  bending  over  him  and  kissing  his  forehead. 

"My  dear,  there's  nothing  wrong,  is  there?,"  he  asked. 

"No !  But  you  looked  so  anxious  at  lunch  that  I  thought 
I'd  come  and  tell  you  everything  was  all  right.  What  a 
darling  room  Lady  Pentyre's  given  you  to  work  in!  Or 
sleep  in.  Were  you  frightfully  tired,  sweetheart,  and  did  I 
wake  you?" 

"I  was  only  lazy.    Is  it  tea-time  ?" 

"We've  had  tea.    And  I'm  supposed  to  be  writing  letters. 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  201 

Don't  you  think  I've  written  them  long  enough  ?  Don't  you 
think  you  might  take  me  on  the  river  now  ?" 

She  held  out  her  hands,  and  Eric  jumped  up  and  caught 
her  in  his  arms.  He  had  dreamed  of  many  things,  not  all  of 
them  pleasant;  when  he  felt  the  light  brush  of  lips  on  his 
forehead,  he  could  have  sworn  that  Barbara  was  kissing  him  ; 
and  the  sight  of  Ivy  puzzled  him,  recapturing  for  an  instant 
the  fleeting  cloud- wreath  of  a  fancy  that  something  had 
happened  to  her,  that  he  had  lost  her.  .  .  . 

"You  were  anxious,  Eric?" 

"I  didn't  want  you  to  be  upset ;  and  I  didn't  want  even  a 
shadow  to  come  between  us." 

"It  hasn't." 

They  ran  downstairs  hand  in  hand,  separating  decorously 
in  the  hall  and  then  slipping  through  a  side-door  into  the 
garden.  Reaction  over  her  fright,  the  ever -new  sense  of 
security  had  elated  Ivy  until  she  was  happier  than  at  any 
time  since  their  magical  return  to  London  from  the  river. 
In  a  week  their  month's  waiting  would  be  over;  he  was 
already  beginning  to  think  how  the  announcement  should 
be  made.  .  .  . 

"One  week  more !" 

Eric  was  startled : 

"/  didn't  say  anything!" 

"I  know  you  didn't.    I  was  just  thinking — " 

"I  was  thinking,  too— of  that.    Well,  Ivy?" 

"Bless  you,  Eric!.  .  .  As  if  I  didn't  know  all  along!  As 
if  there'd  ever  been  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  doubt.  But  I 
shan't  marry  you  unless  you  swear  to  me  that  you  want  me. 
I  feel  I  shall  disappoint  you  so  terribly,  Eric;  you're  so 
clever  and  so  wise.  I  never  think.  .  .  You  were  quite  right 
about  Johnnie;  I  feel  much  better  now  that  it's  all  over." 

He  helped  her  into  the  boat  and  paddled  into  mid-stream. 

"It  went  off  all  right?/'  he  asked.  "I  don't  want  to  know 
what  happened." 


202  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"But  I  want  to  tell  you,  I  like  telling  you  everything." 
She  thought  critically  over  her  story  before  beginning  it. 
"It  was  curious.  He  seemed  to  start  again  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  .  ."  She  was  looking  dreamily  at  the 
nodding  blue  and  orange  irises  wading  a  third  of  the  way 
across  the  stream ;  she  did  not  see  Eric's  involuntary  shudder 
and  stiffening.  "He  began  again  from  the  time  when  I 
asked  him  when  we  were  going  to  be  married;  he  actually 
said,  'You  remember  that  talk  we  had  one  night  before  I 
took  you  to  the  Vaudeville.  You  asked  me  how  long  I 
thought  I  should  take  to  get  demobilized.  .  .'  I  said  'Yes'. 
Eric.  .  .,  well,  I'll  come  to  that  later.  He  said  he'd  had  a 
very  bothering  time,  because  sometimes,  when  he's  not  well, 
he  doesn't  seem  able  to  make  up  his  mind  about  anything; 
and  no  one  in  his  wretched  ministry  seemed  to  know  what 
anybody  wanted  to  do.  .  .  He'd  thought  it  over  and  he'd 
decided  to  come  out.  You  know  his  uncle,  Lord  Poynter, 
don't  you?  Well,  Lord  Poynter  had  offered  him  a  job — a 
very  good  job,  I  imagine — in  the  Azores  Line.  .  .  ." 

She  paused  and  regarded  the  irises  with  a  puzzled  frown, 
still  trying  to  examine  her  narrative  critically. 

"Go  on,"  said  Eric. 

"Well,  he  stopped  short  there.  .  .  He  was  very  quiet.  .  . 
He  seemed  to  be  saying  that  he'd  made  all  arrangements  and 
everything  was  right  and  I'd  been  rather  impatient.  I  didn't 
know  what  to  say.  .  .  .  Well,  then  he  said,  'The  last  time  we 
were  together  you  seemed  to  have  a  pretty  low  opinion  of 
me.  I  told  you  that  I  couldn't  marry  you  then.  I  can't 
marry  you  now.  I  can't  marry  you  till  I've  got  the  job  and 
held  it.  But  I'm  going  to  get  it  and  I'm  going  to  hold  it.'  " 

"Ah!" 

Ivy  looked  up  in  surprise  at  the  rasping  interjection. 

"What  d'you  mean,  Eric?" 

"It  sounds  to  me  very  like  his  original  promise.  And  I 
think  he's  making  it  for  the  same  purpose.  He's  trying  to 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  203 

get  you  back."  He  paused  and  then  hurried  on  for  fear 
that  prudence  might  restrain  him.  "He  wouldn't  have 
thought  of  you,  if  I  hadn't  been  in  the  way.  It's  a  trial  of 
strength  against  me.  Go  on." 

Ivy  winced,  and  the  pupils  of  her  eyes  dilated. 

"I  told  him  that  things  had  changed,"  she  explained.  "I 
said — it  wasn't  true — I  said  that  I'd  always  believed  in  him, 
but  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  frightened.  .  .  I  reminded 
him  of  everything — the  night  when  he  said  'If  that's  your 
opinion  of  me,  we'd  better  call  the  engagement  off/  I  re- 
minded him  of  the  woman  I'd  seen  him  driving  home  with. 
He  said.  .  ." 

"Well?" 

"He  said,  'I've  never  pretended  to  be  a  saint.  When  I 
was  knocked  out  in  the  war,  I  saw  everything  differently. 
Most  people  would  cut  me,  if  they  knew  anything  of  my 
private  life;  I  drink  too  much,  I  do  this  and  that.  .  .  I 
could  put  up  a  case,  if  I  thought  it  worth  while,  but  I  don't. 
You  knew  all  this  the  first  night  we  met.  I  didn't  pretend 
to  be  better  than  my  neighbour,  I  daresay  I'm  a  lot  worse ; 
I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  But  I'm  the  same  as  I  was 
that  first  night.  I  loved  you  then — and  I've  never  loved 
another  woman  before  or  since.  I  asked  you  to  marry  me 
then;  and  I'm  in  a  position — I  soon  shall  be,  at  least — to 
make  good.'  Then  he  sort  of  left  it  to  me.  .  .  I'd  thought 
of  all  kinds  of  bitter,  horrid  things  to  say,  but  I  didn't  want 
to.  I  think  he  meant  it.  I  felt  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to 
be  cold  and  dignified.  I  said,  'There  was  a  time  when  I 
thought  I  was  in  love  with  you.  I've  changed  since  then. 
I  thought  you'd  broken  your  promise  to  me,  I  lost  faith  in 
you.  Perhaps  I  never  properly  loved  you,  but,  if  I  lived 
to  be  a  thousand,  I  could  never  love  you  or  trust  you 
again'  .  .  .  While  I  said  it,  I  felt  that  I  might  be  terribly 
wrong,  but  it  was — instinct.  He  looked  at  me.  .  .  Then  he 


204  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

looked  at  his  watch.  .  .  Then  he  said,  'We'd  better  be 
getting  back,  or  we  shall  be  late  for  tea.'  Eric.  .  ." 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  felt  free.  I  felt  I'd  won.  I  felt  you  were  right 
and  I  should  never  be  troubled  again.  I'm  happy  now.  .  . 
Of  course,  I  was  happy  before,  but,  when  he  flung  himself 
into  the  carriage  at  Euston.  .  .  Eric,  you'll  despise  me,  but 
have  you  ever  seen  a  dog  being  called  simply  to  be  beaten? 
It  comes.  It  knows  it's  going  to  be  beaten.  And  it  migJit 
run  away.  But  it  knows  it  has  to  come  back  later.  I  felt 
that,  if  ever  Johnnie.  .  .  I  felt  it  at  lunch,  when  he  sug- 
gested that  I  should  come  on  the  river  with  him.  .  ." 

The  stream  was  carrying  them  two  yards  down  for  every 
yard  that  Eric  paddled  towards  home.  He  bent  over 
the  side  for  a  merciful  moment  of  eclipse  and  unshipped  a 
pole. 

"And  now?,"  he  asked. 

"When  he  said  we  should  be  late  for  tea,  if  we  didn't  get 
back,  I  knew  I'd  won,"  she  answered  promptly. 

A  serpentine  rivulet  of  water  ran  down  Eric's  arm;  he 
turned  his  head  and  industriously  rolled  up  his  sleeve. 

"Good  for  that,"  he  commented.  "Ivy,  if  you  ever  think 
I'm  behaving  like  a  cold-blooded  old  man,  I  should  rather 
like  you  to  suspend  judgement  for  five  seconds.  Think  of 
me  as  a  man  who  might  have  kidnapped  you,  when  you  were 
so  miserable  that  you  didn't  know  whether  you  were  on 
your  head  or  on  your  heels ;  think  that  I'm  trying  to  play 
fair  when  perhaps  I  might  play  foul  and  still  win.  .  .  I've 
forgotten  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but,  if  we  don't  get  back, 
we  shall  be  late  for  dinner." 

She  looked  at  him  fearlessly;  and  he  realized  that  she 
had  not  looked  at  him  like  that  before. 

"I  can  think  of  you  as  all  that — and  a  lot  more,"  she 
answered. 

For  the  second  dinner  Eric  found  himself  between  Lady 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  205 

Maitland  and  Amy  Loring;  he  observed  that  Ivy  was  be- 
tween O'Rane  and  Gaymer,  but  he  felt  no  uneasiness.  She 
had  emerged  morally  stronger  and  with  enhanced  person- 
ality from  her  encounter  of  the  afternoon.  Gaymer  shewed 
no  sign  of  disappointment  or  rebuff,  but  he  was  silent  and 
preoccupied.  Eric  would  have  given  much  to  know  what 
was  going  on  inside  his  head  and  what  he  made  of  a  girl 
who  yielded  to  him  and  then  refused  to  marry  him.  .  .  . 

Resentment  was  swamped  in  curiosity.  The  fellow  might 
be  genuinely  in  love  with  Ivy,  though  he  modelled  himself  too 
closely  on  the  dramatically  strong,  silent  man  who  bluffly 
admitted  that  he  was  of  flesh  and  blood  like  other  men,  that 
others  must  take  him  as  they  found  him.  Or  he  might  be 
trying  only  to  re-establish  his  ascendancy  for  a  few  days  or 
weeks  until  some  other  woman  came  his  way.  Ivy  might 
boast  that  she  had  won  free  of  him,  but  at  least  she  half- 
believed  in  him,  at  least  she  had  let  him  off  without  a  word 
of  reproach,  at  least  she  was  susceptible  and  even  in  danger, 
if  he  set  himself  to  win  her  back.  Was  this  new  assurance 
and  elation  more  than  the  response  of  a  woman's  vanity  when 
she  found  two  men  equally  desirous  of  marrying  her  ?  Eric 
looked  impatiently  on  the  week  which  still  lay  ahead  of  him. 
When  their  engagement  was  announced,  Gaymer  must  in- 
evitably take  himself  off,  but  it  was  possible  to  compress  a 
great  deal  of  mischief  into  one  week. 

After  dinner  Eric  went  out  of  his  way  to  open  conversa- 
tion with  his  moody  neighbour. 

"I  understand  you're  going  to  be  demobilized  shortly,"  he 
began. 

"There's  some  talk  of  it,"  was  the  guarded  answer. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of  doing  ?,"  Eric  persisted,  though 
his  companion  put  no  hint  of  welcome  into  his  manner. 

"I'm  looking  for  a  well-paid  job  with  good  holidays  and 
short  hours.  Do  you  know  of  any?" 

"I  know  of  several  men  who  started  looking  for  just  that 


206  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

job  when  they  went  down  from  Oxford  a  dozen  years  ago. 
But  for  the  war  they'd  still  be  looking  for  it." 

"Well,  if  you  hear  of  anything,"  said  Gaymer  in  a  tone  of 
dismissal,  "mind  you  let  me  know.  Or  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
care  to  take  the  responsibility  of  recommending  my  name? 
You  expressed  yourself  very  fluently  on  the  one  occasion 
when  you  honoured  me  with  a  visit." 

He  was  clearly  undecided  whether  to  end  the  conversation 
or  to  pick  a  quarrel.  Eric  knew  that  it  would  be  wisest  to 
turn  round  and  talk  to  General  Maitland,  but  Gaymer  always 
employed  a  contemptuous  insolence  of  manner  which  roused 
any  combativeness  that  his  audience  might  have. 

"Did  I  say  anything  that  wasn't  justified?,"  Eric  asked 
with  an  effort  of  memory. 

"I  suppose  it's  a  matter  of  opinion  how  far  any  one's 
justified  in  interfering  with  other  people's  business.  But, 
as  that  seems  to  be  the  serious  occupation  of  your  life,  you 
can't  be  too  thorough.  I  recognized  that  then,  you  remem- 
ber ;  I  begged  you  to  drop  in  at  cocktail-time  whenever  your 
feelings  were  too  much  for  you.  I  suppose  you've  been  too 
busy  to  come." 

"No.  I  felt  that,  whether  it  was  my  business  or  not,  you 
at  least  had  dropped  out  of  it." 

Gaymer  removed  his  cigar  and  stared  dully  at  the  glow- 
ing end. 

"Well,  you  seem  to  have  been  very  busy  with  my  name 
behind  my  back,"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  aware  of  it." 

"Oh?    It  was  an  impression  I  got." 

"Can  you  remind  me  what  I  said  ?,"  asked  Eric. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  You  seem  to  have  been  doing 
very  efficient  propaganda  against  me.  Weren't  you  in  the 
Propaganda  Department  at  one  time?" 

"Yes.  And  my  experience  there  was  that  the  propaganda 
which  you  carry  out  against  a  nation  never  compares  with 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  207 

the  propaganda  which  a  nation  carries  out  against  itself.  One 
good  Lusitania  outrage  was  worth  months  of  our  solemn  gen- 
eralizations ;  that  shewed  the  world  what  the  Germans  really 
were." 

Gaymer  yawned  openly: 

"I  daresay  you're  right.  I'm  not  a  good  judge  of  back- 
stabbers."  Eric  smiled  and  refused  to  be  roused  by  the 
word.  "I  admit  that  I  sometimes  wonder  now,  as  I  won- 
dered then,  just  where  you  come  in." 

"I  think  I  told  you  that  I  was  a  friend  of  one  of  the 
parties." 

"But  does  that  justify  you  in  telling  lies  about  me  to  the 
parents  of  one  of  the  parties?  I  only  ask  for  information." 

"I  never  met  or  held  any  communication  with  either  parent 
until  some  days  later.  Then  I  said  that  I  did  not  know  you 
well  enough  to  give  an  opinion  about  you ;  it  was  untrue, 
but  I  erred  on  the  side  of  generosity.  All  this  was  months 
after  you  had  been  invited  to  leave  the  house." 

Gaymer  turned  away  without  troubling  to  answer,  and 
for  the  next  two  days  they  only  exchanged  formal  greetings 
when  they  could  not  avoid  each  other ;  but  there  was  already 
so  much  tension  in  the  house  that  a  little  more  or  less  made 
no  difference.  Barbara  stayed  until  the  end  of  the  party, 
talking  without  embarrassment  to  Eric  and  looking  him 
frankly  in  the  eyes.  Amy  Loring,  who  knew  as  much  of 
their  relationship  as  any  one,  betrayed  neither  surprise  nor 
curiosity.  The  Maitlands,  who  welcomed  Eric  as  cordially 
as  they  repelled  Gaymer,  presented  an  attitude  of  stolid  in- 
difference and  would  have  been  artistically  astonished  if  any 
one  had  hinted  that  the  two  men  were  fighting  a  subterranean 
duel  for  Ivy.  Madame  Pinto  de  Vasconcellos  tried  to  com- 
promise every  man  in  turn,  and  her  husband  glowered 
silently  at  her  frantic  failures. 

"I  think  it  was  so  sweet  of  you  all  to  come,"  said  Lady 
Pentyre  complacently  each  evening.  "I  do  hope  you're  en- 


208  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

joying  yourselves.  I  was  thinking  that  to-morrow,  per- 
haps. .  ." 

She  would  then  concentrate  on  the  first  attentive  listener, 
suggesting  expeditions  and  ordering  cars  indefatigably.  The 
prevailing  chill  of  misgiving  had  not  spared  her  in  the  early 
days  of  her  party,  for  Mr.  Justice  Maitland  had  begged  her 
not  to  facilitate  meetings  between  Ivy  and  Gaymer  at  her 
house;  but  what  could  a  woman  do,  she  asked  herself,  when 
a  man  buttonholed  her  son  at  the  last  moment  and  said  that 
he  had  nowhere  to  go  for  Whitsuntide?  She  remembered, 
too,  that  years  ago,  when  there  was  so  much  gossip  about 
the  O'Ranes,  Sonia  had  run  away  from  her  husband  and 
billeted  herself  at  Croxton ;  she  had  invited  the  two  of  them 
without  really  being  sure  that  they  went  about  together.  As 
Bobbie  complained  or  boasted — in  his  silly  way  and  without 
trying  to  help  her — ,  the  smallest  Croxton  party  could  be 
trusted  to  produce  one  catastrophe  and  three  scandals;  but, 
so  far  as  Lady  Pentyre  could  see,  every  one  was  now  getting 
on  very  happily  with  every  one  else;  and  she  had  reached 
an  age  when  she  aimed  less  at  positive  success  than  at  the 
avoidance  of  disaster. 

At  the  end  of  each  day  Ivy  reported  to  Eric  all  that  she 
had  done.  There  was  little  enough  to  say,  for  Gaymer  had 
never  tried  to  be  alone  with  her  since  she  gave  him  his 
dismissal  on  the  river.  As  the  train  drew  near  London,  he 
did  indeed  join  for  a  moment  in  the  general  discussion  of 
plans  and  ask  her  as  a  matter  of  form  whether  he  was  likely 
to  see  her  again  soon. 

"I'm  very  busy  at  present,"  she  told  him.  "I  daresay  you 
know  that  I'm  trying  to  make  myself  useful  to  Mr.  Lane 
while  his  secretary's  away." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  still  doing  that,"  he  answered 
without  interest. 

Eric  drove  with  the  Maitlands  to  Eaton  Place  and  took 
Ivy  on  in  their  car  to  his  flat. 


A  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  209 

"Thank  goodness!  That's  over!,"  he  exclaimed,  when 
they  were  alone. 

"Were  you  afraid  there'd  be  a  scene?,"  she  asked. 

"There  were — several,  only  you  were  spared  them.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  inevitable.  But  in  five  days'  time — " 

"It's  only  four  and  a  half  now." 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL 

"It  is  not  good  that  the  man  should  be  alone  .  .  ." 

GENESIS:  II.iB. 

As  Lady  Maitland's  car  drove  away  from  Euston,  Car- 
stairs  set  himself  to  divide  the  luggage  and  find  seats  for 
the  rest  of  the  party.  His  wife  was  sent  with  Madame  Pinto, 
Amy  Loring  with  Barbara;  he  himself  arranged  to  share  a 
taxi  with  Deganway  to  the  Foreign  Office. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Gaymer  ?,"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  drink,"  was  the  answer. 

"We  can  drop  you  in  Buckingham  Gate,"  suggested  Mrs. 
O'Rane. 

Gaymer  sat  moodily  on  his  suit-case,  beating  his  cane 
against  the  side  of  his  leg. 

"Do  I  want  to  go  there?,"  he  yawned.  "Well,  I  suppose 
it's  as  good  a  place  as  any.  .  .  I'll  drop  you  first  and  take 
the  car  on." 

As  they  headed  for  Westminster,  Mrs.  O'Rane  reviewed 
the  house-party  with  a  critical  eye,  while  Gaymer  stared  out 
of  window  and  her  husband  assembled  and  sorted  such 
impressions  as  had  come  to  him  from  words  which  were 
intended  to  cover  feelings  and  from  voices  which  broke 
through  the  disguise  of  words.  The  men  and  women  who 
talked  to  him  still  made  play  with  gestures  and  expressions 
which  he  could  not  see;  they  forgot  to  keep  their  voices 
mechanical ;  and,  even  without  Amy's  warning  that  they 
must  be  prepared  for  storms,  he  could  have  deduced  a  state 

210 


THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL    211 

of  tension  from  half-heard  changes  of  tone,  from  hesita- 
tions and  accelerations,  from  shrill  notes  of  self-betrayal  and 
unctuous  rolls  of  insincerity. 

"We  must  make  Bobbie  Pentyre  take  a  little  more  trouble 
before  we  go  to  Croxton  again,"  cried  Mrs.  O'Rane.  "His 
parties  are  such  a  hideous  jumble.  That  appalling  Pinto 
woman!  I  won  thirty-five  pounds  from  her  at  poker,  but 
I'd  pay  twice  that  not  to  meet  her  again.  And  fancy  asking 
Babs  and  Eric  Lane  at  the  same  time!" 

"I  think  that's  all  over,  Sonia,"  said  her  husband. 

A  murmur  of  lowered  voices  had  reached  him  the  first 
night  at  dinner;  and,  though  he  could  not  hear  the  words, 
he  guessed  from  Barbara's  tone  that  she  was  testing  her 
strength  and  that  Eric  was  holding  himself  detached.  It 
was  safe  to  assume  that  there  had  been  a  scene  of  some  kind, 
for  on  later  days,  when  they  spoke  at  all,  Eric's  voice  was 
apprehensively  frigid  and  Barbara's  unnaturally  composed. 
No  one  else  seemed  to  have  noticed  anything,  and  any  gossip 
centred  round  Eric  and  Ivy.  O'Rane  suspected  antagonism 
here  between  Gaymer  and  Eric;  however  they  spoke  when 
they  were  alone,  there  was  a  frozen  politeness  of  voice  when 
any  one  else  was  present.  Gaymer,  presumably  was  in  love, 
for  his  tone  wakened  to  warmth  when  he  talked  to  Ivy ;  and, 
presumably,  his  suit  was  not  prospering,  for,  when  they  re- 
turned from  the  river,  he  had  hardly  spoken  at  all. 

"The  Maitland  child  was  working  hard,"  said  Mrs. 
O'Rane. 

"She's  being  hunted  into  it  by  the  family,"  said  Gaymer, 
breaking  silence  for  the  first  time.  "She  doesn't  get  on 
with  her  own  people — small  blame  to  her! — ,  and  Connie 
Maitland  doesn't  want  to  be  stuck  with  her  for  all  time ;  so, 
when  a  man  with  a  certain  amount  of  money  comes  along — " 

"She'll  get  him  easily  enough,"  interrupted  Mrs.  O'Rane. 
"No  man  of  thirty-five  is  proof  against  innocence  and  bobbed 
hair.  They  think  they're  renewing  their  youth;  and,  if 


212  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

they've  made  fools  of  themselves  already,  they  imagine  a  girl 
of  eighteen  will  be  nice  and  tractable.  .  .  And  eighteen 
adores  the  wisdom  of  thirty-five  and  loves  to  think  that 
purity  and  youth  have  won  the  day  against  experience.  I  had 
a  succes  fou  when  I  was  eighteen ;  nine  old  men  proposed 
to  me  in  one  week,  and  seven  of  them  said  that  I  was  like 
a  flower  with  the  dew  still  on  me.  The  only  one  I  cared  for 
had  a  wife  already;  he  didn't  call  me  a  flower,  but  he  knew 
enough  of  women  to  be  dangerous.  I'm  sure  Eric  Lane  calls 
the  Maitland  child  a  flower;  and,  when  she  grows  up,  she'll 
be  so  bored  that  she'll  run  away  with  the  first  man  who 
knows  that  women  aren't  flowers.  .  .  ." 

O'Rane  retired  within  himself  and  continued  his  analysis. 
Gaymer  was  certainly  in  love ;  too  prudent  to  betray  himself 
by  attacking  a  rival,  he  soothed  his  own  troubled  spirit  by 
pretending  that  Ivy  Maitland,  if  not  in  love  with  him,  was 
at  least  not  in  love  with  any  one  else.  Sonia — to  judge  by 
her  voice,  though  no  one  saw  her  stealthily  examining  her 
reflection  in  the  strip  of  glass  opposite  her — was  just  old 
enough  to  be  jealous  of  a  girl  ten  years  younger,  who  was 
beginning  to  attract  men  by  her  looks  and  youth  rather  than 
by  artifice  or  qualities  of  mind.  And,  if  the  Maitlands  were 
indeed  forcing  Ivy  into  marriage,  no  compulsion  was  needed 
on  the  other  side ;  though  Eric  had  talked  to  every  one,  his 
voice  too  became  animated  only  when  he  was  with  Ivy.  .  .  . 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  said  Mrs.  O'Rane,  as  the  car  came 
to  a  standstill.  "D'you  like  to  take  it  on  or  will  you  come 
in  for  your  drink,  Johnny  ?" 

Gaymer  sat  for  some  moments  in  silence,  as  though  unable 
to  make  up  his  mind  to  do  anything. 

"Oh,  never  refuse  a  good  offer,"  he  answered  at  length, 
as  he  dragged  himself  out  of  the  car. 

"Help  yourself,  then.  I'm  lunching  out  and  I  must  change 
my  dress." 

In  the  moment  that  she  took  to  hurry  into  the  house  and 


213 

glance  at  her  letters,  Gaymer  watched  her  with  a  new,  im- 
personal interest.  His  eyes  followed  her  as  she  ran  upstairs 
humming  to  herself.  Less  than  three  years  before,  it  was 
commonly  believed  that  she  had  quarrelled  with  her  husband 
and  run  away  with  another  man;  tiring  of  him,  apparently, 
she  had  come  back.  It  was  curious  that  women  could  dart 
to  and  fro  like  this;  in  his  own  experience  he  had  always 
been  the  first  to  tire  and  he  had  never  gone  back  to  a  woman 
after  passion,  drearily  cooling,  had  at  last  mercifully  died; 
if  his  passion  for  Ivy  had  cooled,  he  could  not  now  return 
to  her,  but  she  had  broken  away  while  she  still  amused  him, 
while  his  power  over  her  was  strongest,  while  he  had  only 
to  rouse  her  jealousy  in  order  to  make  her  do  whatever  he 
wanted.  .  .  . 

A  faint  fragrance  of  violets  lingered  in  the  hall,  provoca- 
tive as  the  broken  music  of  Sonia's  voice  when  she  sang  to 
herself  overhead.  Though  he  had  always  found  her  too 
metallically  sure  of  herself  to  be  attractive,  Gaymer  felt 
resentfully  that  he  was  being  denied  something  that  other 
men  had  and  that  ought  to  be  his.  O'Rane  was  waiting  for 
him  in  the  library,  but  he  was  bored  with  the  company  of 
men.  Softness  of  voice  and  touch,  lightness  of  step,  sweet- 
ness of  body,  yielding  gentleness.  .  .  A  man  was  incomplete 
without  woman.  .  .  . 

He  walked  into  the  library  and  mixed  himself  a  drink. 
Women  were  too  near  animals  to  be  civilized,  but  they  were 
pleasantly  domesticated.  Pink  tulips  on  every  table,  great 
branches  of  lilac  bursting  from  both  fire-places.  .  .  And 
his  senses  had  brought  with  him  that  faint  fragrance  of 
violets.  Gaymer  wondered  what  O'Rane  had  done  when 
Sonia  ran  away  and  left  him  with  memories  and  a  ravening 
hunger.  The  world  was  full  of  women,  but  their  love  was 
impermanent ;  you  could  not  buy  or  steal  a  substitute  if  it 
was  your  wife  who  had  left  you.  .  .  Or  Ivy,  who  was  as 
much  your  own  as  a  wife.  .  .  . 


214  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"A  drink  for  you,  O'Rane?,"  asked  Gaymer. 

"No,  thanks.  I  can  smell  things,  but  my  taste  is  not 
what  it  once  was.  .  .  I  don't  want  to  seem  inhospitable, 
Gaymer,  but  you're  drinking  much  more  than's  good  for  you. 
It's  a  sound  rule  only  to  drink  when  you're  at  the  top  of  your 
form ;  otherwise  it's  a  waste  of  good  liquor  and  ruination  of 
a  good  constitution." 

Gaymer  drained  his  tumbler  and  refilled  it.  The  decanter 
rattled,  as  he  put  it  down  on  the  tray,  and  he  transferred  it 
to  the  table-cloth  so  that  he  could  help  himself  again,  if  he 
desired,  without  attracting  his  host's  over-acute  attention. 

"I  can  drop  it  any  time  I  like,"  he  boasted. 

"Then  drop  it  now,"  O'Rane  suggested.  "Apart  from 
health,  you  aren't  doing  yourself  any  good.  I  hear  you're 
looking  out  for  a  job,  and  it's  only  fair  to  warn  you  that 
you're  getting  a  bad  name  with  men  and  women.  D'you  like 
candid  advice?" 

"I  don't  mind  it  from  you." 

"Well,  I  should  clear  out  of  this  country.  There's  too 
little  work  for  you,  too  much  drink  and  too  many  women. 
Your  record  in  the  war  was  too  creditable  to  fritter  away  in 
bars  and  promenades.  Take  a  couple  of  years  to  steady  down 
and  then  come  home  and  get  married.  You're  not  fit  to 
marry  till  you've  got  your  nerve-centres  back  in  place." 

Gaymer  refilled  his  glass  and  replaced  the  decanter  care- 
fully; the  syphon  was  a  noisy  complication,  so  he  dispensed 
with  it. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  I  want  to  do,"  he  yawned. 

"Well,  you  want  to  be  a  decent  member  of  society." 

"Not  in  the  least !  Before  the  war  I  wanted  to  make 
money  and  have  a  good  time;  I  enjoyed  the  war  because  I 
liked  flying.  .  .  and  I  liked  killing.  There  was  no  'thin  red 
line'  about  me ;  I  wasn't  risking  my  skin  for  the  people  here. 
It  was  good  fun,  though  and  I  believe  I  killed  more  French 
than  Germans.  Now  1  want  to  have  a  good  time  again." 


THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL     215 

"And  what  constitutes  a  good  time?,"  asked  O'Rane. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  The  usual  things.  .  .  Human 
nature's  constant." 

"And  it's  amazing  how  soon  human  nature  gets  tired  of 
wine,  women  and  song.  Short  of  sudden  death,  you've  a 
long  life  before  you  still;  you  must  aim  at  something  per- 
manent. And  the  only  permanent  things  you're  going  for 
at  present  are  cirrhosis  of  the  liver  and  general  paralysis.  .  . 
Were  you  in  love  with  this  Maitland  child  ?" 

Gaymer  turned  in  his  chair  so  quickly  that  he  upset  his 
tumbler;  as  he  picked  it  up,  he  wondered' if  O'Rane  knew 
that  blindness  alone  saved  him  from  having  the  remains  of 
the  brandy  thrown  in  his  face.  .  .  After  a  moment's  in- 
dustrious mopping,  Gaymer  looked  up  and  was  bewildered 
to  find  his  ill-temper  evaporating.  Criticism,  advice  and 
questions  were  jerked  out  with  a  naked  candour  which 
mysteriously  robbed  them  of  offence. 

"She's — a  pretty  kid,"  he  answered  carelessly. 

"I've  never  seen  her,  of  course.  She's  nothing  more?" 
asked  O'Rane. 

"I  was  quite  fond  of  her." 

"Nothing  more?" 

"I'm  fond  of  her  still." 

"Nothing  more?" 

Gaymer  impatiently  broke  three  matches  before  he  could 
light  his  cigarette. 

"What  more  d'you  want?"  he  asked  petulantly. 

"Well,  does  she  or  any  woman  mean  enough  to  you  to 
make  you  want  to  be  a  decent  member  of  society?  .  .  . 
That's  your  fourth  brandy!  Yes,  I  know  you  spilt  one.  .  . 
That's  why  I  said  you  weren't  fit  to  marry  yet.  Would  you 
knock  off  drink  and  give  up  hanging  about  with  every  other 
woman  you  see  and  start  in  to  earn  a  decent  living?" 

A  patter  of  light  feet  and  a  rustle  of  clothes  heralded 
Sonia's  return.  She  hurried  to  the  writing-table,  kissing 


216  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

her  husband  on  the  way,  rummaged  among  a  litter  of  papers 
and  hurried  out  again,  leaving  the  same  faint  fragrance  of 
violets  as  a  provocative  reminder  of  her  presence. 

"I'm  rather  out  of  favour  at  present,"  said  Gaymer,  as  he 
stood  up  and  began  to  inspect  the  room  with  critical  envy. 

"There  are  other  women  in  the  world.  This  one's  much 
too  much  of  a  child  for  you." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  I'd  do  a  lot  for — for  a  woman  I  loved. 
Oh,  I'd  be  the  complete  reformed  character,"  he  added  with 
a  laugh  that  was  a  contemptuous  antidote  to  his  sincerity  of 
a  moment  before. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  that  you  have  one  vulnerable 
spot.  .  .  It's  time  to  pull  up." 

Gaymer  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  without  understand- 
ing. 

"I  wonder  what  you're  trying  to  get  at.  .  .,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

Refusing  the  offer  of  a  seat  in  Sonia's  car,  he  strolled 
towards  Buckingham  Gate  and  arranged  to  have  his  lug- 
gage collected  from  the  O'Ranes'  house.  There  had  been 
no  purpose  in  going  there,  no  purpose  in  declining  the  lift, 
no  purpose  in  anything.  He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  or 
decide  what  he  wanted  to  do  next.  After  ordering  lunch- 
eon at  home  because  he  did  not  want  to  meet  people  at  his 
club,  he  countermanded  the  order  and  set  out  aimlessly 
across  the  Park.  The  government  offices  were  emitting  a 
stream  of  girl-clerks,  and  he  paused  to  watch  them  with  dis- 
favour; other  women  were  curiously  unattractive  at  this 
moment.  .  .  One  o'clock.  .  .  He  too  must  have  some- 
thing to  eat.  .  .  . 

Instead  of  walking  to  his  club,  Gaymer  found  himself 
halting  irresolutely  at  the  corner  of  Ryder  Street.  It  was 
in  one  of  these  houses  that  Ivy  worked  now;  at  any 
moment  she  might  come  out,  he  could  invite  her  to  lunch 
with  him.  .  He  waited  for  half-an-hour  and  then  turned 


THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL    217 

disgustedly  into  St.  James'  Street.  Ivy  was  not  coming 
out.  Eric  Lane  had  taken  possession  of  her  with  so  much 
assurance  that  no  one  else  was  allowed  to  see  her.  .  .  . 

An  errand-boy  swept  round  the  corner  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  road  and  sent  his  front  wheel  over  Gaymer's 
toes  before  overbalancing  with  basket  and  bicycle.  Gay- 
mer  surveyed  him  dispassionately  for  a  moment  and  then 
broke  into  such  abuse  that  a  crowd  began  to  collect.  The 
furious  rush  of  foul  language  eased  a  pressure  which  was 
becoming  unbearable.  The  boy  was  scared,  the  onlookers 
were  cynically  amused ;  amusement  changed  to  inarticulate 
sympathy  as  Gaymer  paused,  drew  breath  and  started  again ; 
he  was  still  hurling  maledictions  when  boy  and  bicycle  had 
disappeared  from  sight,  and  the  idlers  raised  a  murmur  of 
sympathy  as  a  white-whiskered  admiral  intervened  in  de- 
fence of  decency. 

"Mind  your  own  blasted  business,  curse  you!,"  Gaymer 
roared  in  savage  delight  at  finding  a  new  antagonist. 

"Another  word,  and  I  give  you  in  charge  for  using  ob- 
scene language,"  threatened  the  admiral. 

The  crowd,  which  was  beginning  to  disperse,  collected 
again  and  raised  a  subdued  cheer  in  support  of  the  old  man. 
"Quite  right  too!,"  Gaymer  heard.  "Perfectly  disgust- 
ing. .  .  Ashamed  of  himself.  .  ."  He  filled  his  lungs  for 
an  annihilating  attack  on  them  all ;  but,  before  he  could 
deliver  it,  Carstairs  elbowed  his  way  through  the  onlookers 
and  demanded  to  know  what  was  amiss. 

"Swine  of  a  boy  runs  his  bloody  machine  over  my 
toes.  .  .  ,"  Gaymer  began. 

"Well,  don't  make  such  a  row  about  it!  Come  to  the 
club  and  have  some  lunch." 

Gaymer  directed  a  last  furious  look  at  his  muddy  boots, 
then  turned  from  Carstairs  and  walked  rapidly  down  Picca- 
dilly. He  would  have  liked  to  tell  the  interfering  old 
admiral  what  he  thought  of  him;  he  would  have  liked  to 


218  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

thrash  that  damned  boy,  to  thrash  any  one.  .  .  Cursing 
him  was  good  in  its  way,  but  he  had  been  stopped  before 
he  attained  any  satisfaction.  .  .  . 

The  desire  for  food  had  passed ;  but  Gaymer  reached  his 
club  in  time  for  a  drink  and  felt  better  for  it.  The  desire 
for  a  fight  remained.  In  the  open  noon  of  his  life  as  a 
soldier  he  had  never  known  this  maddening  itch  of  tru- 
culence.  To  be  able  to  call  some  one  a  German!  .  .  .  He 
prowled  through  the  smoking-room  in  search  of  a  victim, 
but  people  would  only  say  "Hullo,  Johnny!  Coming  to 
join  us?"  .  .  .  And  he  had  already  been  reported  to  the 
committee  and  forced  to  apologize  "for  conduct  unworthy 
of  a  gentleman"  in  the  card-room.  .  .  . 

At  five  o'clock  he  returned  to  Ryder  Street,  only  re- 
membering when  it  was  too  late  that  he  had  not  yet  looked 
for  Eric  Lane's  number  in  the  directory.  Ivy  must  come 
out  some  time!  .  .  .  Unless  she  spent  the  night  there.  -  . 
Gaymer  checked  in  his  short,  loathed  beat,  for  this  was  a 
question  that  had  to  be  faced  and  answered.  Imprimis,  all 
these  writers — and  especially  the  fellows  connected  with 
the  stage  who  could  blackmail  a  girl  before  they  would  give 
her  a  speaking  part — helped  themselves  to  anything  that 
came  their  way;  they  were  an  immoral  lot,  but  a  man  did 
not  need  to  be  a  plaster  saint  in  order  to  feel  that  some 
forms  of  immorality  were  worse  than  others,  that  the  lethal 
chamber  was  the  only  place  for  the  long-haired  gang  who 
pretended  to  be  above  the  ordinary  rules.  .  .  Lane  did 
not  grow  his  hair  long,  he  had  been  taken  up  by  quite 
decent  people;  but  what  was  true  of  all  was  true  of  one. 
He  posed  as  a  delicate  idealist — with  the  caressing  voice 
of  a  woman  and  a  soulful,  'not-long- for-this-world'  look 
in  his  eyes;  so  familiar  was  the  pose  become  that  Gaymer 
had  been  deceived  by  it  into  thinking  he  had  nothing  to 
fear.  The  fellow  talked  "spiritual  beauty"  to  a  little  fool 


THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL     219 

like  Ivy  until  he  won  her,  soul  and  body.  .  .  And  all 
the  time  looking  like  a  parson.  .  .  . 

Gaymer  rang  at  the  nearest  door  without  looking  at  the 
number.  He  might  have  the  luck  to  meet  Ivy ;  failing  that, 
he  could  always  bait  the  parson-poet.  .  .  Somewhere  in- 
side, a  clock  chimed  seven,  and  he  flung  away  in  disgust 
without  waiting  for  the  door  to  be  opened.  Two  hours! 
Ivy  was  home  by  now.  Two  hours  walking  up  and  down 
that  forsaken  street  because  a  consumptive-looking  Grub 
Street  hack  had  walked  off  with  the  girl  that  he  wanted.  .  . 
What  could  she  see  in  him?  Gaymer  caught  sight  of  his 
own  sturdy,  well-groomed  reflection  in  a  shop-window.  In 
the  name  of  Heaven,  what  could  she  see  in  the  fellow? 

It  was  still  broad  day-light,  owing  to  this  accursed  "sum- 
mer time" ;  and  London  was  never  so  intolerable  as  by  day. 
He  walked  aimlessly  along  Piccadilly  and  up  Regent 
Street,  along  Oxford  Street  and  up  Tottenham  Court  Road. 
His  course  would  be  a  zig-zag  on  the  map.  .  .  Zig-zag.  .  . 
Everything  was  zig-zag;  purposeless,  wearisome.  .  .  He 
remembered  suddenly  that  he  had  eaten  no  food  all  day. 
Zig-zag.  .  .  His  feet  had  strayed  out  of  Tottenham  Court 
Road  into  a  side-street,  and  he  found  himself  staring  at  a 
newly  painted  shop-front.  Inside,  a  band  was  playing;  ap- 
petizing savours  of  hot  food  floated  up  from  the  basement; 
and  women  with  arms  white  and  eyes  darkly  mysterious  in 
the  gathering  dusk  pattered  through  the  door-way  with  a 
half -glance  back  in  universal  invitation. 

"What's  this  place?,"  Gaymer  asked  the  commissionaire. 

"Fleur  de  Lys  Dance  Club,  sir." 

"Well,  I  want  to  be  a  member.  Make  up  a  name  for  me 
and  fix  it  with  the  secretary.  Add  my  subscription  to  the 
dinner-bill  and  keep  this  for  yourself." 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  Gaymer  walked  through 
the  hall,  threw  his  hat  on  to  a  counter  at  the  end  and 
mounted  to  a  gallery  overlooking  a  garish  green-and-gold 


220  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

ball-room.  Dinner  was  being  served  at  small  tables  round 
three  sides  of  the  gallery;  in  the  fourth  was  ensconced  a 
negro  band  Gaymer  looked  and  listened,  forgetting  himself 
for  a  moment  in  his  effort  to  classify  the  place  and  the  com- 
pany. Cheap  and  tawdry,  he  decided,  without  even  the 
appearance  of  spontaneous  hilarity;  respectable,  in  all 
probability.  .  .  The  men  looked  like  clerks  earnestly  aping 
the  life  of  gaiety  and  wantonness  created  for  them  in  il- 
lustrated papers  and  cinematograph  theatres.  The  women, 
presumably,  were  typists,  milliners,  hotel  clerks,  manne- 
quins. In  cut  and  material  their  clothes  were  too  good  to 
have  been  bought  new;  here  and  there  a  draggled  flounce 
or  soiled  shoe  hinted  at  long  service.  Gaymer  had  always 
wondered  what  girls  did  with  their  cast-off  finery.  .  . 

It  was  a  new  world  peopled  by  an  unknown  race,  and  he 
was  uncertain  of  the  technique  for  gaining  admittance.  At 
the  table  nearest  to  him  a  girl  was  sitting  alone,  and  he 
asked  leave  to  join  her. 

She  did  not  know  whether  to  be  flattered  or  affronted 
that  he  had  addressed  her ;  and  Gaymer  was  confirmed  in  his 
contemptuous  diagnosis  of  the  company's  narrow  re- 
spectability. As  she  lacked  experience  and  dignity  to  assert 
herself,  he  decided  that  she  would  respond  to  treatment 
which  took  her  for  granted.  He  smiled  and  sat  down  with 
confident  composure. 

"I'm  waiting  for  my  friend,"  the  girl  answered  doubt- 
fully, looking  past  him  to  the  door. 

Gaymer  inspected  her  critically.  She  was  young,  dark 
and  anaemic  with  thin  arms  and  a  thin  back  bare  to  the 
waist;  her  extravagantly  low-cut  dress  was  incongruously 
rich  half -covering  to  the  meagre  body  which  it  so  generously 
revealed,  but  she  had  abundant  hair,  warm  lips  and  restless 
dark  eyes.  He  looked  away  for  a  moment  at  the  other 
women  in  their  neighbourhood  and  decided  that  he  had 


THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL     221 

done  well  in  choosing  her ;  then  he  looked  towards  the  door, 
trying  to  identify  her  "friend". 

"You're  not  with  that  'bandy-legged  Yid,  are  you  ?,"  he 
asked  with  disfavour,  as  a  man  left  the  door  and  ap- 
proached their  table. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  in  open-mouthed  surprise. 

"Please  not  to  speak  like  that  about  my  friend!,"  she 
exclaimed. 

"You'll  enjoy  yourself  much  more  with  me." 

"We — haven't  been  introduced.  .  .  And  I  can't  give  him 
the  go-by,"  she  answered  uncertainly,  impressed  in  spite  of 
herself  by  his  assurance. 

"This  is  a  table  for  two,"  said  Gaymer  significantly, 
picking  up  the  wine-list.  "What  are  you  going  to 
drink?  .  .  .  God,  what  assorted  poison!  We'll  try  the 
champagne ;  if  it's  not  fit  to  drink,  we  can  fall  back  on  an 
honest  brandy  and  soda.  What  are  you  going  to  eat?" 

Calling  to  a  waiter,  he  began  ordering  dinner  and  was 
still  absorbed  in  his  task  when  the  "friend"  touched  his 
shoulder  and  murmured  deferentially: 

"I  think  you've  taken  my  chair,  sir." 

Gaymer  glanced  up  for  a  moment  and  then  turned  to  his 
study  of  the  wine-list. 

"I  don't  like  Jews,"  he  observed. 

"This  lady.  .  .     I  had  to  see  about  a  ticket  for  her — " 

"I  don't  like  Jews,"  Gaymer  repeated.  "Waiter !  Where 
the  devil's  our  waiter  gone  to?  Here,  a  bottle  of  forty- 
three.  And  ice  it  properly  first."  Then  he  looked  up 
again  at  the  man  whose  chair  he  had  taken.  "I've  spoken 
about  this  before.  Will  you  go  away?" 

The  man  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  flushed  and  turned 
to  the  girl. 

"We'll  find  another  table,  Grade,"  he  said  with  a  tremble 
in  his  voice. 

"Grade's  dining  with  me,"  said  Gaymer.     "She's  much 


222  THE  SECRET.  VICTORY 

too  good  for  you.  If  you  go  away  at  once,  there  need  be  no 
unpleasantness.  If  you  persist  in  butting  in  where  you're 
not  wanted.  .  ."  He  paused  to  recollect  his  encounter  with 
the  errand-boy  in  Piccadilly,  the  fruitless  hours  of  patrol 
in  Ryder  Street.  .  .  "I  shall  send  you  to  Abraham's  bosom 
at  such  a  pace  that  you'll  come  out  the  other  side." 

The  young  Jew  hesitated  and  looked  appealingly  at  the 
girl. 

"I  don't  want  a  scene — "  he  began. 

"You'll  get  one  unbroken  film  from  here  to  the  nearest 
mortuary,  if  you've  not  gone  in  fifteen  seconds,"  said  Gay- 
mer,  laying  his  watch  on  the  table.  "One,  two,  three, 
four.  .  ." 

"I'm  going  to  speak  to  the  secretary,"  said  the  young  Jew 
•with  dignity.  "Bear  witness,  Gracie!  He  started  it!  .  .  . 
Chucked  out!  That's  what'll  happen  to  you,  sir!" 

As  he  hurried  away,  Gaymer  breathed  luxuriantly. 

"It's  a  pity  there's  not  more  lynching  in  England,"  he 
observed,  "but  I'm  glad  I  came  in  time  to  keep  him  from 
molesting  you  any  further." 

"You  didn't  ought  to  have  treated  him  like  that,"  giggled 
the  girl,  who  had  enjoyed  every  moment  of  the  altercation 
and  was  now  looking  furtively  at  the  door  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  her  cavalier  returning  with  the  secretary.  "He'll 
never  speak  to  me  again." 

"He  certainly  won't  while  I'm  here.  And,  if  I  have  any 
trouble,  he'll  never  -speak  to  any  one  this  side  of  the 
grave.  .  .  Go  to  him,  if  you  prefer  it,"  he  added  brusquely. 
"So  far  as  I  know,  I've  never  killed  a  Jew  yet.  One  ought 
to,  just  for  the  experience." 

"The  things  you  say !,"  cried  the  girl.  "I'd — like  to  stay, 
only  poor  Mr.  Lewis.  .  .  You  scared  him  away,  no  mis- 
take. .  .  Champagne.  Shall  I  go  all  funny  if  I  drink  it?" 

"I   hope  so,"   Gaymer  answered,   raising  his  glass   cau- 


THE  WANDERING  OF  ISHMAEL     223 

tiously.  "God!  it's  like  treacle!  Waiter,  if  you've  any 
brandy  fit  to  drink,  bring  it  here!" 

As  his  rival  did  not  reappear,  Gaymer  cast  about  for 
other  means  of  distraction.  Once  again  he  had  been  dis- 
appointed of  his  fight;  and  there  was  no  satisfaction  in  ac- 
cumulating the  spoils  of  victory  without  a  struggle.  It 
was  something,  indeed,  that  he  could  "scare  away"  another 
man  and  win  over  a  woman  by  a  mere  word;  but  the 
woman  was  not  worth  trouble.  .  .  and  the  man  was  only  fit 
to  thrash.  .  .  . 

"What's  your  other  name,  Grade?,"  he  asked  abruptly. 
"What  d'you  do  with  yourself  all  day?  Tell  me  all  your 
absorbing  life-history." 

Under  the  influence  of  the  champagne,  which  he  left  her 
to  drink  by  herself,  the  girl's  tongue  was  loosened;  and, 
though  he  paid  little  attention  to  what  she  was  saying,. 
Gaymer  learned  before  the  end  of  dinner  that  she  was  con- 
fidential typist  to  an  export  merchant,  that  she  lived  at 
Tottenham  and  that  she  was  at  that  moment  supposed  to  be 
spending  the  night  with  another  girl  from  the  same  office 
•and  going  to  a  concert.  The  young  Jew  was  book-keeper 
in  a  neighbouring  office  and  had  fong  desired  to  marry  her. 

"But  I  keep  him  at  a  distance,"  she  confided.  "I  want 
to  have  a  look  round  before  I  settle  down.  No  sprees 
then,"  she  added  regretfully. 

"Married  life's  what  you  make  it,"  said  Gaymer.  "Come 
and  dance." 

Dinner  had  put  him  in  good  humour,  and  he  was  now 
less  contemptuously  critical.  Gracie  had  a  certain  elemental 
charm,  holding  herself  well,  walking  well  and,  as  she 
danced,  melting  into  his  arms  until  she  seemed  a  part  of 
him.  The  champagne  had  brought  colour  into  her  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  shone  in  ecstasy.  The  crash  and  jerk,  the 
bleating  and  rumble  of  the  band  sent  a  thrill  of  dancing 
madness  through  her  nerves,  and  at  Gaymer's  touch  she 


224  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

shivered  and  became  still  as  though  she  were  a  bird  and  his 
hand  had  closed  over  her  fluttering  wings.  .  .  . 

After  a  riot  of  rag-time  the  orchestra  subsided  into  a 
waltz. 

"If  you — could  care — for  me,"  she  hummed,  "as  I — 
could  care — for  you-ou.  .  ." 

"Don't!"  Gaymer  snapped. 

She  was  all  right  until  she  opened  her  mouth;  but,  when 
she  spoke,  there  was  commonness  without  depravity.  He 
doubted  whether  she  was  clever  enough  to  shake  off  her 
accent,  her  phrases,  her  devastating  gentility.  And,  if  she 
never  spoke,  there  was  little  companionship  in  the  adventure. 
Already  she  was  giving  him  a  foretaste  of  what  their  re- 
lations would  be.  .  .  mechanical,  soulless,  without  intimacy 
or  tenderness;  they  danced  for  ten  minutes  and  then  went 
back  to  their  table  in  the  gallery  for  a  drink  and  a  cigarette, 
then  danced  again.  And,  whenever  the  music  stopped,  he 
had  to  keep  her  from  talking.  .  .  . 

"I  wonder  what's  happened  to  Mr.  Lewis?,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"Don't  bother  about  him.  .  .  I  say,  Grade,  have  you 
had  enough  of  this?  I'm  as  hot  as  hell  in  these  thick 
clothes.  Let's  get  some  air." 

"Where  are  you  going  to?,"  she  asked,  as  he  led  her  into 
the  hall. 

"We'll  talk  about  that  later.     Get  your  cloak." 

The  girl  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him,  her  eyes 
charged  with  fear. 

"I.  .  .  I  must  go  home,"  she  stammered. 

"Get  your  cloak,"  Gaymer  repeated.  "I'll  try  to  find  a 
taxi." 

They  drove  down  Tottenham  Court  Road  without  speak- 
ing. Gaymer  was  tired,  restless  and  bored,  the  girl  fas- 
cinated and  terrified.  Once  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  wrist 
and  asked  with  dry  lips  where  he  was  taking  her. 


"Home." 

"I  didn't  ought  to!.  .  .     I  mustn't,"  she  cried. 

Gaymer  put  his  arm  round  her  thin  shoulders  and  kissed 
her. 

"Don't  you  want  to?,"  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  ought  to." 

He  withdrew  his  arm  and  lay  back  in  his  own  corner : 

"It's  a  free  country.     Don't  come  if  you  don't  like." 

There  was  a  second  silence,  and  the  girl  turned  to  him 
timidly,  putting  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  looking  at 
him  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

"I'm  frightened,"  she  whispered.  "Be  nice  to  me!  Do 
you  want  me?" 

Gaymer  kissed  her  mechanically  and  with  contempt  for 
her  cheap  surrender.  He  had  asserted  himself  against  the 
young  Jew  and  against  this  girl,  but  the  proof  of  power 
brought  him  no  satisfaction.  For  a  week  or  two  Gracie 
might  amuse  him ;  then  they  would  grow  tired  of  each  other, 
there  would  be  recriminations  and  a  scene,  he  would  have  to 
find  some  one  to  take  her  place.  And,  while  she  was  with 
him,  she  had  nothing  but  her  meagre  looks  and  the  servile 
passion  which  he  had  inspired.  They  might  live  together, 
but  he  would  never  deign  to  share  his  life  with  her.  .  .  . 

"Is  it  far?,"  she  asked.     "I'm  so  tired." 

Gaymer  did  not  care  whether  she  was  tired  or  not; 
nothing  that  she  could  say  or  do  would  rouse  him  to  tender- 
ness; nothing  that  could  happen  to  her  would  stir  him  to 
concern.  She  was  useful,  she  could  never  be  essential ;  a 
servant  to  be  engaged  and  replaced.  He  despised  her  be- 
cause she  could  give  him  no  companionship;  very  soon,  he 
knew,  he  would  loathe  her.  .  .  . 

"If  you're  tired,  you'd  better  go  home,"  he  said. 

"You  are  horrid  to  me!,"  she  whimpered. 

"Sorry!  But  it's  all  a  mistake."  He  tapped  on  the 
window  until  the  taxi  stopped.  "I'm  going  to  get  out. 


226  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

You  take  this  on  home.  Give  this  to  the  man.  Kiss  me 
good-bye  and  part  friends!  You  have  enjoyed  yourself, 
I  hope.  Good-bye,  Grade." 

He  thrust  a  note  into  her  hand,  opened  the  door  and 
walked  rapidly  away.  The  driver  waited  and  then  came  to 
the  window  for  orders;  he  was  lazily  amused  to  see  a  girl 
sitting  forward  with  her  cloak  on  the  floor  and  her  hands 
locked  between  her  knees,  staring  in  bewilderment  at  the 
vanishing  form  of  her  late  companion.  Her  lips  were 
parted,  her  eyes  strained;  she  shivered  and  pulled  the  cloak 
over  her  bare  shoulders  and  back;  the  movement  seemed 
to  break  a  spell  and  she  roused  to  give  an  address.  As 
the  taxi  turned,  she  took  a  last  look  over  her  shoulder,  then 
dropped  her  head  between  her  hands  to  think ;  at  the  same 
moment  the  driver  looked  around  with  a  leer  at  her  ex- 
pression of  perplexity,  in  which  a  wave  of  disappointment 
was  succeeded  by  a  wave  of  thankfulness  and  then  a  second 
wave  of  disappointment.  She  chewed  petulantly  at  a 
corner  of  a  crumpled  handkerchief,  then  hid  her  face  and 
began  to  cry. 

Gaymer  walked  south,  girding  at  himself.  Nothing  that 
he  could  do  was  right.  .  .  He  was  mercifully  rid  of  a 
woman  whom  he  might  well  have  strangled  before  morning. 
But  he  was  not  rid  of  the  maddening  loneliness  which  had 
tortured  him  all  day,  racking  him  with  an  extra  twist  every 
time  that  he  saw  a  man  and  girl  perambulating  arm-in- 
arm. .  .  . 

At  two  o'clock  he  found  himself  once  more  in  Ryder 
Street,  pacing  up  and  down  for  no  better  reason  than  that 
he  had  already  paced  up  and  down  there  for  so  many 
hours.  Ivy  could  not  be  there  at  two  o'clock.  .  .  He 
turned  into  St.  James'  Street  and  crossed  the  Park  to  Eaton 
Place,  led  thereto  by  instinct  and  well  knowing  that  he  would 
find  no  satisfaction  in  staring  at  a  blind  window.  It  was 
more  than  time  for  him  to  be  in  bed,  but  he  could  not 


227 

muster  courage  to  enter  his  flat.  Too  many  reminders  of 
Ivy  lingered  to  haunt  him  in  each  derisory  void  room.  A 
game  thrown  away  through  carelessness.  .  .  He  could 
have  held  her;  granted  opportunity,  he  could  recapture  her 
as  easily  as  he  had  captured  the  yellow  woman  with  the 
silly  name  at  the  counter-jumpers'  carnival  off  Tottenham 
Court  Road.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  pity  to  let  that  young  Jew  escape  without  a 
hiding.  .  .  . 

A  pity  that  he  had  not  thrashed  that  errand-boy.  .  .  . 

Gracie  was  not  the  girl  that  he  wanted,  but  she  was 
better  than  nothing.  And  he  had  let  her  go.  ... 

Three  o'clock.  .  .  . 

Gaymer  walked  to  Jermyn  Street  in  the  grey  chill  of  a 
summer  morning.  He  did  not  greatly  want  a  Turkish 
bath,  but  it  would  be  good  for  him  after  the  indifferent 
liquor  that  he  had  been  consuming  all  day.  And  he  could 
sleep  for  a  few  hours.  And  Jermyn  Street  was  convenient 
for  the  parson-poet's  flat.  .  .  . 

Befolre  he  began  the  bath  he  must  remember  to  look  up 
the  fellow's  address  in  the  directory.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

MIRAGE 

Would  I  lose  you  now?  would  I  take  you  then, 
If  I  lose  you  now  that  my  heart  has  need? 

And  come  what  may  after  death  to  men, 
What  thing  worth  this  will  the  dead  years  breed? 

Lose  life,  lose  all ;  but  at  least  I  know, 

O  sweet  life's  love,  having  loved  you  so, 

Had  I  reached  you  on  earth,  I  should  lose  not  again, 
In  death  nor  life,  nor  in  dream  or  deed. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE:    "THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME." 

IVY  always  appeared  so  punctually  that,  on  the  morning 
after  their  return  from  Croxton,  Eric  was  first  surprised 
and  then  disquieted  when  nine  o'clock,  half-past  nine  and 
ten  struck  and  there  was  still  no  sign  of  her.  His  hand 
was  stretched  to  the  telephone,  when  she  came  in  breathless 
and  apologetic. 

"I  couldn't  get  here  before.  Don't  be  angry  with  me, 
Eric,"  she  begged,  as  she  took  off  her  gloves  and  hat. 

"I  was  only  getting  rather  anxious,"  he  answered. 
"There's  nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  Ivy?" 

"No.  Yes.  No.  .  .  I  ran  into  Johnnie  opposite 
Buckingham  Palace,  and  he  insisted  on  walking  across  the 
Park  with  me.  That's  what  made  me  late.  We  sat  and 
talked.  I  thought  it  best  to  thresh  the  thing  out  once  and 
for  all  and  to  have  done  with  it." 

The  brisk  voice  and  businesslike  manner  were  not 
wholly  convincing;  as  she  smoothed  her  hair,  Eric  saw  that 
she  was  flushed  and  still  out  of  breath. 

"What  did  he  say?,"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  he  told  me  he  could  explain  everything,  and  I'd 
promised  to  marry  him,  and  he  wanted  to  marry  me,  and 

228 


MIRAGE  229 

I'd  got  to  marry  him.  .  .  He  was  frightfully  in  earnest. 
He  said  I  was  the  only  girl  he'd  ever  cared  for  in  the  least ; 
and  I  hadn't  been  reasonable,  wanting  to  marry  when  he 
hadn't  anything  to  marry  on  and  then  making  a  quarrel  out 
of  it.  He  vowed  that  he'd  never  have  looked  at  that  woman 
or  at  any  other  woman,  if  I  hadn't  refused  to  see  him.  I 
did,  you  know ;  I  wanted  to  punish  him,  so  I  wouldn't  have 
him  near  me  for  a  month;  it  was  during  that  time  that  I 
found  out.  .  .  He  said  that,  after  all  we'd  been  to  each 
other,  I  must  marry  him,  I  couldn't  marry  any  one  else,  I 
was  practically  married  to  him  already.  .  .  I  said  I 
couldn't  discuss  it  with  him.  But  I  wish  he  didn't  take  it 
so  seriously.  .  .  Let's  get  to  work,  Eric;  I  don't  want  to 
think  about  it." 

She  shivered  slightly  and  took  her  note-book  and  pencil 
from  a  drawer.  Eric  turned  to  his  letters  without  saying 
anything  more.  She  had  grown  suddenly  pale,  and  her 
hands  were  trembling;  obviously  unfit  for  work,  she  was 
still  less  fit  for  sitting  still  and  brooding.  .  .  Since  Gaymer 
had  clearly  contrived  this  meeting,  he  meant  business ;  there 
was  nothing  more  likely  than  that  he  would  contrive  a 
second  and  third.  Eric  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  letter 
and  looked  out  of  the  window,  but  the  street  was  empty. 

"D'you  feel  you've  made  him  see  that  everything's  over 
between  you?,"  he  asked. 

"I've  told  him  so  again  and  again,  but  he  simply  pays 
no  attention,"  she  cried  tremulously.  "He  keeps  going  back 
to  my  promise,  as  though  the  only  shadow  of  difference  be- 
tween us  was  that  he  was  so  slow  and  I  was  so  impatient. 
He  says  he'll  marry  me  as  soon  as  Lord  Poynter's  offer  is 
confirmed,  and  I  can  publish  the  engagement  as  soon  as  I 
like.  I  told  him  I  didn't  want  to,  I  said  I  wasn't  engaged 
to  him  any  longer;  then  we  started  again  at  the  beginning 
.  .  .  Eric,  don't  let's  talk  about  it." 

They  returned  to  the  letters,  and  he  went  on  dictating  until 


230  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

he  discovered  that  Ivy  was  paying  no  attention  to  him. 
One  hand  supported  her  head ;  with  the  other  she  was  draw- 
ing little  patterns  on  the  blotting  paper.  Suddenly  the 
pencil  slipped  from  her  fingers;  he  saw  her  eyes  close  and 
her  lips  whiten,  as  she  bit  them. 

"My  child—!" 

"It's  nothing!  I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute,  but  I  felt 
so  funny  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Are  you  in  pain?" 

"I  am,  rather.  .  .  ." 

She  bit  her  lips  at  a  new  spasm,  and  Eric  put  his  fingers 
on  her  pulse.  Then  he  picked  her  up  and  carried  her  into 
his  room,  leaving  her  there  for  a  moment,  while  he  gave 
orders  for  a  bed  to  be  made  up  in  his  spare  room  and  tele- 
phoned for  Dr.  Gaisford  to  come  round  at  once. 

"I'm  really  all  right,  I  just  felt  funny,"  she  protested, 
when  he  told  her  what  he  had  done.  "I  think  meeting 
Johnnie,  you  know.  .  .  I  don't  want  a  doctor." 

She  tried  to  sit  upright,  then  fell  back,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands.  Eric  took  up  his  stand  half-way  between 
the  window  and  the  bed  until  he  saw  a  car  stopping  at  the 
door.  The  sight  of  the  doctor's  familiar,  burly  figure 
heartened  him,  and  it  was  only  as  he  ran  downstairs  and 
found  himself,  white-faced  and  agitated,  being  mistaken 
for  the  patient,  that  he  realized  how  frightened  he  had  been. 

"When  you're  not  ill  yourself,  you'll  always  take  some 
one  else's  illness  on  your  shoulders,"  grumbled  the  doctor. 
"I've  never  seen  such  a  fellow !  Where  is  she  ?" 

"In  my  room." 

"And  what's  happened?" 

As  best  he  could,  Eric  described  Ivy's  sudden  collapse. 
The  doctor  raised  his  eyebrows  once  and  grunted  to  him- 
self: 

"Right.  Then  you  can  go  out  for  a  nice  long  walk.  I 
shan't  have  you  in  the  room  and  I  don't  want  you  fussing 


MIRAGE  231 

about  outside.  Come  back  after  lunch,  and  I'll  give  you 
a  new  set  of  orders  then.  It's  possible  that  we  shan't  be 
able  to  move  her  for  some  time." 

"But  is  she  bad?  You  haven't  seen  her  yet!,"  Eric  cried 
inconsequently. 

"I  can  make  a  guess  what  the  trouble  may  be.  Now  clear 
out,  my  son,  and  don't  pull  a  long  face.  It's  a  thing  that 
may  happen  to  any  one — any  one  who's  fool  enough 
to  be  a  woman,  that  is.  I  don't  propose  to  let  her  die,  if  I 
can  help  it,  so  you  needn't  summon  the  relations.  The  less 
said  to  them — and  to  every  one — the  better  for  your  young 
friend." 

He  entered  the  bedroom,  leaving  Eric  mystified  and 
fidgetting  with  anxiety  in  the  hall.  There  was  a  kindly, 
gruff,  "Well,  my  dear?"  and  an  inarticulate  answer  from 
Ivy.  Eric  hovered  on  tiptoe  outside  the  door,  waiting  to 
be  handed  prescriptions  or  sent  for  brandy.  He  looked  into 
the  spare  room  to  see  whether  the  bed  was  yet  made.  "Miss 
Maitland's  a  little  faint,"  he  explained  easily  enough  to  the 
servants.  Then  he  started  and  turned  away,  for  across 
the  hall  and  through  an  open  and  a  closed  door  came  an  un- 
mistakable moan.  It  was  not  repeated,  and  he  lurked  un- 
easily in  the  hall,  trying  to  distinguish  the  mutter  of  voices. 
Then  he  went  to  his  cellar  and  opened  a  bottle  of  brandy. 
Gaisford  was  a  fool  to  keep  him  out  of  the  room;  he  could 
not  possibly  know  where  anything  was  kept.  .  .  Eric 
hurried  into  the  library  and  wrote — "In  the  cupboard  under 
my  wash-hand-stand  you'll  find  sal  volatile,  eau- de-cologne 
and  aspirin.  Also  bicarbonate  of  soda  and  bismuth.  I've 
got  brandy  here.  Let  me  know  if  there's  anything  else  you 
want."  He  twisted  the  paper  into  a  thin  spill,  pushed  it 
under  the  door  and  knocked  gently. 

Half-an-hour  later  Dr.  Gaisford  came  into  the  library 
with  the  paper  crumpled  in  his  hand  and  a  smile  puckering 
his  eyes  and  mouth. 


232  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"I  thought  I  said  something  about  a  nice  walk,"  he 
grunted. 

"Is  it  anything  serious?,"  asked  Eric,  disregarding  the 
hint. 

"'Bicarbonate  of  soda  and  bismuth',"  read  the  doctor. 
"How  old  are  you,  Eric?  Six?  Seven?  It's  a  very 
ordinary  business;  and  there'll  be  no  danger,  if  we  are 
careful;  but  I  somehow  don't  think  eau-de-cologne  quite 
meets  the  case,  my  learned  colleague.  I'm  going  to  write  a 
note,  and  you're  going  to  take  it  away  in  a  taxi  and  bring 
back  a  nurse.  That  child's  not  to  move  for  three  weeks. 
She  won't  want  to,  for  a  day  or  two,  because  she's  in  con- 
siderable pain;  and,  after  that,  she'll  be  very  weak.  And, 
after  that, — well,  you  may  feel  that  Providence  has  stepped 
in  and  solved  a  good  many  future  difficulties  for  you.  It's 
a  curious  thing — " 

"Is  she  in  danger?,"  Eric  interrupted,  as  the  doctor's 
meaning  became  clear  to  him. 

"We-ell,  it's  worse  than  a  cut  finger  and  not  as  bad  as 
a  broken  back.  Perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  to  point  out 
that  you  do  no  good  to  any  one  by  getting  into  a  panic. 
I'll  tell  you  that  she  needs  careful  handling;  and  we'll 
leave  it  at  that,  because  that  part's  my  job.  But  you've  to 
keep  your  head  and  lend  me  your  inventive  and  dramatic 
genius.  We've  to  concoct  a  convincing  lie  over  this.  What 
are  we  going  to  say  is  the  matter  with  her?" 

Eric  sat  heavily  on  the  arm  of  a  chair,  too  much  numbed 
to  think. 

"I  leave  that  to  you,"  he  answered  with  a  helpless  shake 
of  the  head. 

"Then  I  make  it  appendicitis.  We  must  study  our  parts ; 
she  must  have  been  troubled  with  pains  and  sickness,  and  I 
recommended  an  immediate  operation.  .  .  We'll  make  a 
good  lie,  while  we're  about  it;  I  happen  to  know  that  Fitz- 
William  is  ill  and  Greenaway's  fishing  in  Ireland;  they're 


MIRAGE  233 

the  obvious  men,  so  we'll  say  we  tried  to  get  them  to 
operate;  when  they  couldn't  come,  I  said  we  daren't  wait 
and  I'd  operate  myself.  You,  meanwhile,  tried  to  tele- 
phone to  the  girl's  mother,  but  the  line  was  engaged.  I 
think  that  holds  water.  .  .  I'll  get  hold  of  a  nurse  I  can 
trust  and  explain  to  her.  .  .  Can  you  pick  any  holes  in 
that?" 

"Is  it  all  right  as  regards  the  law?" 

"Yes,  unless  she's  inconsiderate  enough  to  go  and  die. 
I  don't  put  my  name  to  a  false  certificate  to  oblige  you  or 
any  one,  friend  Eric;  and,  if  it  were  anybody  else,  I 
wouldn't  touch  the  whole  business  with  a  pole.  But,  if 
she  pulls  through — as  she's  going  to — ,we  don't  do  any 
good  by  telling  the  truth  and  we  don't  harm  any  one  but 
ourselves  by  telling  a  good,  saving  lie.  Give  me  a  sheet  of 
paper  and  a  pen.  And,  when  you've  got  the  nurse,  go  off 
to  this  girl's  mother  and  pitch  her  this  yarn.  She  can  come 
and  see  her  for  a  moment,  if  she  insists,  but  you  can  quote 
all  my  degrees  and  decorations  to  her  and  say  that  I'm  very 
strongly  against  it.  Now,  d'you  think  that's  clear?" 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  writing-table  without 
waiting  for  an  answer.  Eric  stood  for  a  moment,  trying 
to  remember  and  understand  all  that  he  had  been  told;  then 
he  fetched  a  hat  and  stick  and  returned  for  the  letter. 

It  was  six  o'clock  before  he  accomplished  his  last  com- 
mission and  drove  back  to  Ryder  Street.  On  reaching  the 
Cromwell  Road,  he  was  informed  that  Ivy's  mother  was  at 
the  house  in  Norfolk;  he  hurried  to  the  Law  Courts  and 
waited  for  the  judge,  who  wasted  half-an-hour  before  de- 
ciding to  do  nothing.  Then  he  laid  siege  to  Eaton  Place, 
pursued  Lady  Maitland  round  London  by  telephone  and 
eventually  intercepted  her  between  two  committees  in  West- 
minster. She  wasted  only  twenty  minutes  in  a  succession 
of  agitated  questions;  and  by  that  time  Eric  had  made  his 
story  polished  and  convincing,  so  that  she  accepted  the 


234  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

doctor's  ban  without  protest,  only  insisting  that  she  was 
to  be  fed  with  morning  and  evening  bulletins.  The  nurse 
had  by  this  time  taken  charge;  Gaisford  had  left  and  re- 
turned; Ivy  was  in  as  satisfactory  a  state  as  could  be  ex- 
pected. 

"I  suppose  nothing  will  induce  you  to  let  me  see  her?," 
said  Eric. 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  grimly : 

"Yes,  if  you  won't  excite  her.  We've  carried  her  into 
your  spare  room,  away  from  your  infernal  telephone  con- 
traptions. Don't  try  to  talk  to  her." 

Eric  went  in  and  returned  swiftly,  with  a  scared  face. 

"I  say,  she's  in  horrible  pain,"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  know.  I  sent  you  in  to  cure  you  of  any  desire  to  go 
back.  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  and  find  some  work  to  do;  otherwise  you'll  simply 
fret  your  nerves  to  ribbons.  It'll  be  much  worse  than  this 
when  you're  married,  if  that's  any  consolation.  Go  and  get 
some  dinner  and  find  some  one  to  take  to  a  music-hall." 

Eric  knew  that  the  doctor  was  trying  to  keep  his  emo- 
tional temperature  low,  but  he  winced  involuntarily  at  his 
inhuman  detachment. 

"While  she's  like  that?  Thank  you,  Gaisford,"  he 
answered  shortly. 

"I'm  trying  to  make  a  philosopher  of  you,"  the  doctor 
explained. 

Eric  looked  at  his  watch  and  walked  aimlessly  down- 
stairs. He  had  forgotten  to  eat  any  luncheon,  and  Gais- 
ford's  suggestion  of  dinner  made  him  conscious  of  a  head- 
ache and  a  vague  feeling  of  sickness.  He  was  dawdling 
irresolutely  in  the  shadowy  hall,  trying  to  decide  whether 
it  was  better  to  continue  hungry  or  to  face  conversation  at 
the  club,  when  he  heard  his  name  called  and  looked  up  to 
find  John  Gaymer  standing  in  front  of  the  name-board 
by  the  fire-place. 


MIRAGE  235 

"I   was  coming  to  return   your  call,"  he  announced. 

Eric  realized  dully  that  he  wanted,  above  all  things,  to 
avoid  an  altercation.  The  head-ache  told  him  that;  he 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  noise  and  the  effort  of  reining 
his  temper  and  barbing  his  tongue  for  a  wrangle.  He  had 
a  head-ache,  because  he  was  hungry ;  he  was  hungry,  be- 
cause he  had  been  about  Ivy's  business  all  day.  And  Ivy 
was  in  such  pain  that  he  could  not  bear  to  stay  in  her  room. 
Gaymer — and  Gaymer  alone — was  responsible;  he  was  re- 
sponsible for  her  agony  of  mind  and  of  body;  he  would  be 
responsible,  if  she  died.  It  was  hardly  the  moment  for  him 
to  thrust  himself  into  what,  for  all  Gaisford's  bluff  con- 
fidence, might  at  any  moment  become  a  house  of  death;  it 
was  hardly  the  atmosphere  or  mood  in  which  to  force  a 
gratuitous  quarrel. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  going  out,"  said  Eric  with  an  effort  to 
avoid  copying  the  veiled  bellicose  tone  of  his  companion. 
"I  didn't  have  any  lunch,  so  I'm  dining  rather  early." 

"Well,  don't  let  me  keep  you.  Shall  I  find  Ivy  up- 
stairs?" 

Eric  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  composed  face  and  power- 
ful frame,  wondering  why  he  took  the  trouble  to  study  him 
so  carefully  and  realizing  with  a  shock  that  he  was  gauging 
his  strength  for  the  moment  when  they  had  to  fight  this 
out.  He  wished  that  he  felt  less  empty  and  sick.  One  well- 
placed  blow  over  the  heart  from  Gaymer's  ready  arm  would 
probably  kill  him. 

"She's  upstairs,"  he  answered.  "You  can't  see  her, 
though." 

"What  a  slave-driver  you  are!,"  Gaymer  laughed.  "I 
only  want  to  speak  to  her  for  a  minute." 

"It's  impossible." 

Gaymer  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly  and  felt  for  his 
cigarette-case.  He  looked  vainly  for  a  chair  and  then 
hoisted  himself  on  to  a  table  beside  the  fire-place : 


236  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"I'll  wait  till  she  comes  out." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  wait  some  time.  She's  not  coming 
out  to-night — or  to-morrow — or  the  next  day." 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  go  up  and  see  her,  then.  I 
quite  appreciate  that  you  don't  want  me  to  disturb  her 
work,  but  you  can't  very  well  sequester  her  person  for  days 
on  end."  He  got  slowly  off  the  table  with  a  swagger  of 
defiance,  keeping  his  eyes  on  Eric  and  moving,  with  his 
head  turned,  towards  the  stair-case.  "There'll  be  some  one 
to  let  me  in,  I  suppose?" 

"There's  a  doctor  and  a  nurse  to  keep  you  out,"  Eric 
answered  without  moving.  "Ivy's  very  seriously  ill,  you'll 
be  interested  to  hear.  She  mustn't  be  worried,  and  I  can't 
allow  any  noise  of  any  kind.  .  .  Perhaps  you'd  better  come 
out  with  me.  There  are  one  or  two  things  which  I  think 
you've  a  right  to  know,  because,  if  that  child  dies,  you'll 
have  murdered  her  as  surely  as  I'm  standing  here." 

Gaymer's  foot  was  already  on  the  lowest  stair,  but  he 
first  hesitated  and  then  came  slowly  back. 

"You  mustn't  allow  your  love  of  the  dramatic  to  run 
away  with  you,"  he  sneered.  "What's  the  matter  with 
her?" 

"I'll  tell  you  outside.  Are  you  coming?  I  warn  you 
that,  if  you  try  to  get  into  my  flat,  I'll  send  for  the  police." 

He  held  open  the  street-door,  and  Gaymer  passed  through 
it  jauntily  after  just  enough  deliberation  to  shew  that  he 
was  not  yielding  to  a  threat.  Eric  walked  half  a  pace 
ahead  of  him  down  St.  James'  Street  and  into  the  Park. 
Once  Gaymer  broke  the  silence  to  ask  where  he  was  being 
taken ;  Eric  strode  on  without  answering  until  he  found  two 
empty  chairs  under  a  secluded  tree. 

"I'm  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of  talking  to  you," 
he  said.  "It  must  be  understood  that  I  can't  let  Ivy  be 
molested  by  you  any  longer.  You  made  a  great  nuisance  of 
yourself  at  Croxton  and  again  this  morning — " 


MIRAGE  237 

Gaymer  leaned  forward  and  thrust  his  face  within  a 
foot  of  Eric's  with  an  unspoken  challenge  to  strike  if  he 
dared. 

"And  who  under  the  sun  are  you  to  tell  me  what  I  may 
do  and  what  I  mayn't,  what  you'll  let  me  do?,"  he  asked. 
"There  are  moments,  my  dear  Lane,  when  you  make  me 
impatient.  /  don't  butt  into  your  private  affairs — " 

"As  I  told  you  once  before,  Ivy's  a  friend  of  mine,"  Eric 
answered,  tipping  his  chair  back. 

"And  of  mine.  You  were  very  much  concerned  to  find 
out  whether  we  were  engaged  to  be  married;  and,  though 
it's  no  more  your  business  now  than  it  was  then,  I  may  tell 
you  that  we  are." 

Eric  shook  his  head  slowly: 

"She's  been  trying  to  cure  you  of  that  delusion  for  some 
days.  I  understand  you  did  once  give  her  a  promise,  but 
that  was  for  your  own  ends.  And  I  understand  you've 
offered  it  again,  no  doubt  again  for  your  own  ends.  But 
when  a  girl's  been  seduced  and  deserted  and  left  with  a 
baby—" 

"You  damned  liar !" 

Gaymer  jumped  up  and  stood  threateningly  over  Eric. 

"It's  no  use  getting  abusive!  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
said  that  she  was  going  to  have  a  baby,  but  that  now  she 
won't.  She  may  die,  though;  and,  in  that  case,  Gaymer, 
nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  is  going  to  save  you ;  I  shall  hon- 
our you  with  my  undivided  attention.  If  she  pulls  through, 
we  shall  not  require  to  see  or  hear  anything  more  of  you." 

"You  damned  liar !,"  Gaymer  repeated ;  but  his  voice  had 
fallen  to  a  whisper,  and  Eric  discovered  with  nicely  blended 
surprise  and  rage  that  the  incredulity  was  unassumed. 

"Don't  go  on  saying  that!  These  things  do  happen,  you 
know." 

"But  this  is  the  first  I've  heard  of  it!" 

"Well.  .  .    You  know  now.     I  saw  Ivy  for  a  moment 


238  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

this  afternoon,  I  saw  what  she  was  going  through.  .  .  You 
vile  little  cad !  .  .  .  And  I've  seen  her  daily,  I've  seen  what 
she's  had  to  go  through — mentally — for  your  pleasure  and 
amusement.  The  first  you've  heard  of  it,  you  swine!  Of 
course  it  is!  Ivy  has  too  much  pluck  and  too  much  pride 
to  come  and  ask  you  to  marry  her  out  of  charity.  I 
shouldn't  be  telling  you  now,  if  she  wasn't  lying  at  death's 
door —  Yes,  you  beast,  I've  seen  her — and  if  I  didn't  know 
it'd  kill  her  to  have  you  blustering  in  and  bullying  her.  .  . 
That  girl — I  met  her  before  you  did,  and  she  was  as  inno- 
cent as  a  child — " 

"Hold  on  a  bit!,"  Gaymer  interrupted. 

Eric  was  out  of  breath  with  the  vehemence  of  his  attack. 
He  leaned  back  panting,  dizzy  with  excitement  and  hunger. 
Gaymer  was  still  standing  over  him,  but  no  longer  menac- 
ing; he  rocked  a  little,  and  his  face  was  shapeless  and 
flabby.  Once,  at  the  onrush  of  an  air-raid,  Eric  had  seen 
a  drunken  man  lying  helpless  in  the  road ;  with  the  bursting 
erash  of  the  first  maroons  he  had  become  sober,  drawing 
himself  slowly  upright,  while  the  flush  and  fire  of  drink 
faded  out  of  his  cheeks,  leaving  him  tremulous,  unmanned 
but  lucid.  Gaymer  was  no  less  unmanned  now. 

"I  think  that's  all  I  need  tell  you,"  Eric  concluded. 

"I'm  not  altogether ,  there  yet.  .  .  I  say,  d'you  feel  in- 
clined to  come  round  to  my  rooms  for  a  drink —  ?" 

"I  do  not." 

"I  wish  you  would."  The  truculence  which  was  second 
self  to  Gaymer  had  left  him.  "You  can  call  me  what  you 
like.  .  .  Look  here,  Lane,  we're  both  of  us  a  bit  on  edge ; 
you  say  you've  had  nothing  to  eat.  .  .  Come  round  and 
take  pot-luck  with  me.  It  doesn't  commit  you  to  anything ; 
you  can  go  on  saying  and  thinking  just  whatever  you  like 
about  me.  But  I  want  to  hear  about  Ivy.  On  my  honour, 
I  never  suspected.  .  .  Did  you  mean  what  you  said  about 
her  being  at  death's  door?" 


MIRAGE  239 

Eric  forced  back  a  passionate  answer. 

"The  doctor  says  he's  going  to  pull  her  through,"  he 
said  at  length.  "I  don't  know  much  about  these  things. 
I  saw  her.  .  .  We  shan't  do  any  good  by  discussing  it." 

Gaymer  leaned  down  and  picked  up  his  cane. 

"Won't  you  come  round?,"  he  asked  again.  "I  want  to 
hear  the  whole  story.  You  mayn't  believe  it,  but  I'm  very 
fond  of  Ivy.  .  ." 

Before  he  appreciated  that  he  was  yielding,  Eric  found 
himself  being  helped  to  his  feet  and  led  towards  Bucking- 
ham Gate.  Gaymer  walked  with  an  uncertain  lurch, 
bumping  into  him  at  rhythmic  intervals  and  saying  nothing 
till  they  were  seated  on  the  divan  in  his  smoking-room  and 
he  was  collecting  himself  to  order  dinner.  No  sooner  was 
his  housekeeper  out  of  the  room  than  he  poured  himself 
nearly  half  a  tumbler  of  brandy  and  drank  it  in  two  prac- 
tised gulps. 

"That's  better,"  he  murmured. 

"You'll  find  yourself  laid  out  with  D.  T.,  if  you  go  on 
like  that,"  Eric  commented. 

"I  wonder.  .  .  I've  got  a  head  like  wood  and,  ever  since 
I  was  wounded,  I've  needed  the  devil  of  a  lot  to  keep  me 
going.  .  .  But  I  can  ride  or  run  or  shoot  or  swim  with 
any  one  you  like  to  put  up  against  me.  .  .  Well,  Lane, 
it's  not  much  use  my  apologizing  for  anything  I  may  have 
said,  because  I've  never  felt  particularly  friendly  towards 
you  from  the  first  day  we  met,  which  is  some  years  ago 
now,  and  I  always  very  strongly  resented  your  butting  in 
where  Ivy  was  concerned.  I  enjoyed  riling  you.  But  I  do 
at  least  see  that  you  had  better  reason  for  butting  in  than 
I  thought.  I  honestly  didn't  think.  .  .  I  wonder  if  you'd 
mind  telling  me  your  version  of  the  business  from  the  be- 
ginning." 

Starting  sketchily  from  his  first  meeting  in  New  York, 
Eric  described  his  relations  with  Ivy  from  the  night  when 


240  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

he  found  her  walking  home  alone  from  the  Vaudeville. 
When  he  came  to  their  Maidenhead  expedition,  he  paused 
long  in  search  of  a  formula. 

"She  admitted  a  little;  the  rest  I  managed  to  guess.  I 
said  I'd  see  her  through,"  he  told  Gaymer. 

There  was  a  second  pause,  but  Gaymer  sat  swinging  the 
empty  tumbler  between  his  knees  and  staring  blankly  into 
the  empty  fire-place.  Eric  continued  his  story  to  the  point 
where  Gaisford  came  into  the  library  to  explain  what  was 
the  matter  with  Ivy. 

"That's  all,"  he  concluded. 

The  housekeeper  came  in  to  announce  dinner. 

"D'you  like  a  wash?,"  asked  Gaymer.  When  they  were 
alone,  he  leaned  his  head  against  the  mantelpiece,  idly 
kicking  the  fender  with  his  heel.  "You  seem  to  have 
jumped  my  claim,"  he  commented  with  a  note  of  surprise  in 
his  voice. 

"Would  you  say  you  had  much  claim  to  jump?,"  asked 
Eric  tartly. 

"I  think  so.  .  .  Come  in  to  dinner.  I'll  give  you  my 
version,  and  you  can  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

While  there  was  a  servant  intermittently  in  the  room, 
Gaymer  preferred  to  talk  about  his  life  before  the  war ;  and 
it  was  not  until  the  end  of  the  meal  that  he  began  to  speak 
of  Ivy.  He  was  naturally  so  uncommunicative  that  Eric 
had  been  on  nodding  terms  with  him  for  three  years  with- 
out discovering  more  about  him  than  that  he  had  been 
severely  wounded  in  the  first  months  of  the  war  and  rele- 
gated to  light  duty  ever  since;  it  seemed  to  Gaymer  un- 
likely that  any  one  should  want  to  know  more,  and  he 
spoke  as  though  anything  that  he  said  might  afterwards  be 
used  against  him.  By  the  end  of  dinner  he  had  relaxed 
his  hold  on  unimportant  scraps  of  autobiography,  and  Eric 
was  able  to  sketch  in  a  background ;  Eton  and  King's,  a 
father  who  had  died  and  a  mother  who  had  remarried  and 


MIRAGE  241 

gone  to  live  in  Italy,  a  sister  who  had  married  and  drifted 
out  of  his  life;  two  years  of  aimless  and  mildly  dissolute 
life  in  London,  varied  with  motor-racing.  .  .  . 

"I'd  always  had  rather  a  turn  for  mechanics  and  I  used 
to  have  a  lot  of  fun  taking  out  cars  and  motor-bikes  for  hill- 
climbing  and  reliability  tests,"  said  Gaymer,  lighting  one 
more  in  a  long  succession  of  cigarettes.  He  had  come  into 
the  room  smoking  and  smoked  continuously,  sending  away 
one  dish  after  another  and  drinking  brandy  and  water  in 
equal  quantities.  "You  don't  get  fat  on  that  sort  of  thing, 
though,  so  I  went  into  a  London  agency  and  sold  cars  on 
commission  to  everybody  I  knew.  'Made  a  good  thing  out 
of  it,  too.  Then  I  started  flying — did  you  know  Babs 
Neave  in  the  days  when  we  swooped  down  on  Salisbury 
Plain  and  broke  up  the  manoeuvres?  ...  I  perfected  a 
new  aero  engine  and  hoped  to  make  a  good  thing  out  of 
that.  Then  came  the  war.  .  .  I  was  smashed  up  a  few 
months  before  we  met;  d'you  remember,  you  were  dining 
with  that  pretentious  prig,  my  aunt  Margaret  Poynter,  at  the 
end  of  '15?  Barring  one  trip  to  America,  when  I  met  you 
again,  of  course,  I've  been  doing  office  work  at  the  Air 
Ministry  ever  since,  rather  wondering  what  to  do  next.  My 
old  firm  has  been  making  lorries  for  the  War  Office  these  last 
four  years;  they  won't  have  any  cars  to  sell  for  eighteen 
months  and  then  they  can  sell  without  the  help  of  an  agent. 
I  waited  till  I  was  quite  sure  there  was  nothing  for  me  in 
the  Air  Force,  then  I  pulled  strings  to  get  out  and  went  to 
Poynter  for  a  job.  He  has  all  kinds  of  interests,  and,  if  I 
don't  mind  going  into  exile  at  Rio,  he'll  place  me  with  the 
Azores  Line.  .  .  Let's  have  coffee  in  the  other  room; 
then  this  old  hag  can  clear  away  without  disturbing  us.  .  . 
Lane,  this  is  a  delicate  position  for  us.  I  must  tell  you  again 
that  you  seem  to  have  jumped  my  claim." 

"And   I   must  repeat  that  you've  no  claim  for  me  to 


242  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

jump.  Tell  me  honestly:  did  you  ever  intend  to  marry 
Ivy?" 

Gaymer  poured  out  the  coffee  and  rang  irritably  for 
liqueur  glasses.  Then  he  offered  Eric  a  cigar,  pierced  one 
for  himself  and  rolled  it  thoughtfully  round  and  round  in 
his  mouth.  It  was  impossible  to  guess  whether  he  was  de- 
ciding how  much  to  tell  or  simply  trying  to  arrange  his 
thoughts.  Eric  sat  down  at  one  end  of  the  divan,  wonder- 
ing why  he  had  come  there  and  what  he  could  add  to  the 
few  brutal  facts  which  he  had  thrown  at  Gaymer  in  the 
Park.  He  would  have  fainted,  if  he  had  gone  without  food 
any  longer,  but,  apart  from  the  dinner,  he  had  achieved 
nothing;  there  was  nothing  to  achieve.  He  wondered  how 
Ivy  was.  .  .  . 

"I — don't — know,"  drawled  Gaymer  at  length,  finishing 
his  brandy  and  throwing  himself  into  a  chair.  Drink  had 
restored  some  of  his  assurance.  He  was  no  longer  dazed, 
no  longer  a  suppliant,  and,  if  he  had  not  yet  reverted  to  his 
old  attitude  of  detached,  provocative  superiority,  he  was 
growing  gradually  more  combative.  "You  see,  when  I  first 
met  her,  marriage  was  out  of  the  question.  Later  on, 
when  I  said  I'd  marry  her,  I  was  quite  ready  ...  if  it  ever 
came  to  that.  But  I  didn't  start  out  with  that  intention. 
I  liked  her,  and  she  liked  me.  .  .  England's  the  only 
country  in  the  world  where  people  think  there's  anything 
wrong  or  unusual.  .  .  And,  since  the  war,  girls  have  al- 
tered a  good  bit ;  they  don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  have  a 
good  time.  Ivy  had  a  thundering  good  time,  the  best  she's 
ever  had  in  all  her  life.  I  got  her  away  from  her  damned 
old  stick  of  a  father,  I  took  her  out  and  shewed  her  round ; 
it  was  all  quite  innocent  and  harmless.  Then  some  one 
began  to  talk,  and  she  cooled  off  a  bit ;  people  were  wonder- 
ing whether  we  were  engaged,  she  said.  And  bit  by  bit 
after  that  she  began  to  put  a  pistol  to  my  head.  She'd 
evidently  made  up  her  mind  to  marry  me ;  I  wasn't  a  marry- 


MIRAGE  243 

ing  man,  I  hadn't  the  money,  but  I  told  her  that  when 
things  straightened  themselves  out.  .  .  There's  no  point 
in  being  engaged  unless  you  get  some  benefit  from  it.  .  . 
Before  she  actually  came  here,  I  did  say  as  a  matter  of 
form  that  I'd  marry  her,  but  at  the  time  I  doubted  whether 
either  of  us  would  v/ant  to.  You  know  how  these  arrange- 
ments end — you  have  a  good  time  for  a  month  or  two;  and 
then  the  thing  begins  to  pall ;  and  then,  if  you're  wise,  you 
kiss  and  say  good-bye  while  you're  still  friends — without 
waiting  for  the  usual  dreary  scenes  and  quarrels.  After 
we'd  had  two  or  three  months  of  each  other  I  didn't  think 
she'd  talk  about  marrying  me  any  more;  if  she  had — after 
three  months — ,  she'd  have  been  different  from  the  others, 
and  perhaps  this  might  be  the  real  thing,  perhaps  we  should 
both  want  to  go  on.  In  that  case  I  should  have  to  consider 
ways  and  means.  .  .  Even  then,  you  see,  I  didn't  think 
anything  would  come  of  it.  Well,  very  soon  after  that  she 
brought  the  question  up  again,  and  we  had  a  bit  of  a 
bicker;  she  went  away  in  a  huff,  and  /  waited  for  her  to 
come  to  her  senses.  The  next  thing  was  that  she  came  to  see 
me  that  night — a  month  later, — and  we  had  an  up-and- 
a-downer.  She  never  said  a  word  then;  as  I  told  you,  I 
never  suspected  till  this  evening.  Well,  I  went  on  waiting 
for  her  to  come  to  her  senses,  but,  when  she  cut  all  com- 
munications, I  saw  I  should  have  to  take  the  first  step.  I 
was  missing  her.  Most  infernally.  .  .  So  I  got  myself  in- 
vited to  Croxton  and  I  meant  to  find  out  what  the  trouble 
was.  If  she  wasn't  the  girl  I  thought  she  was,  if  she'd 
developed  a  conscience  or  been  talked  over  or  had  decided 
that  it  wasn't  workable  to  go  on  having  a  good  time  in  the 
old  way,  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  marry  her.  That  was  the 
first  time  I  saw  it  definitely;  she  suited  me  very  well,  she 
was  a  nice  girl  and  very  fond  of  me;  it  was  rather  a  bore 
getting  married,  but  I  was  ready  to  do  it.  I  tried  to  talk  to 
her  down  there,  but  she  told  me  without  any  beating  about  the 


244  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

bush  that  she'd  had  enough  of  me.  I  should  have  expected 
to  be  a  bit  put  out,  but  I  only  admired  her  for  it.  I  didn't 
know  she  had  it  in  her  to  hand  me  out  my  marching  orders 
quite  like  that.  There  wasn't  any  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  her  again  down  there,  but  I  watched  out  for  her  this 
morning  and  had  a  word;  and,  when  I  met  you  this  eve- 
ning, I  was  coming  down  to  have  another  word.  .  .  I 
never  bother  much  about  defending  myself,  but,  if  I  didn't 
know  till  a  couple  of  hours  ago,  you  can't  very  well  blame 
me.  Now  that  I  do  know,  I  shall  do  the  right  thing." 

He  poured  himself  a  second  glass  of  liqueur  brandy 
after  his  unusual  effort  of  sustained  articulation  and  waved 
the  decanter  towards  Eric. 

"There's  nothing  for  you  to  do  except  to  keep  out  of  the 
way,"  said  Eric.  "If  Ivy  dies, — well,  we  won't  consider 
that.  If  she  gets  well,  she  doesn't  want  any  help  or  recog- 
nition from  you;  there'll  be  no  consequences  for  you  to 
fear;  she  starts  fresh,  and  you  may  believe  her  when  she 
tells  you  that  she  never  wants  to  see  you  again." 

Gaymer  shook  his  head  and  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Ah,  but  I  don't,"  he  answered. 

"She's  told  me  and  she's  told  you." 

"I  don't  give  her  up  quite  as  easily  as  that." 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  persecute  her."  Eric  took  out 
his  watch  and  got  up  from  the  divan.  Gaymer  was  becom- 
ing truculent  again,  and  they  could  look  for  nothing  but  the 
dreaded,  unprofitable  wrangle.  "I  came  here  at  your  re- 
quest; if  there  are  any  questions  you  like  to  ask — " 

"How  soon  can  I  see  Ivy?" 

"You  can't.  She  may  not  live  through  the  night.  If 
she  does,  I'll  make  it  my  business  to  keep  you  away  from 
her." 

"Are  you  afraid?" 

"Of  you?" 


MIRAGE  245 

"Are  you  afraid  to  let  me  see  her,  afraid  that  she  may 
make  up  her  mind  for  herself  ?" 

"She'd  done  that  before  you  got  your  marching  orders  at 
Croxton." 

Eric  turned  his  back  and  took  a  step  towards  the  door, 
but  Gaymer  only  sank  deeper  into  his  chair,  with  one  leg 
thrown  over  the  other  and  his  finger-tips  pressed  to- 
gether. 

"You'd  better  look  at  facts,  Lane.  There  was  a  time 
within  the  last  four  months  when  she  belonged  to  me,  soul 
and  body;  she  may  belong  to  me  soul  and  body  again. 
May.  .  .  If  you  try  to  keep  me  away — I  say  'try',  be- 
cause you  won't  succeed — ,  it's  because  you're  afraid.  You 
think  you're  going  to  marry  her;  I'll  assume  you  do;  I'll 
assume  she's  in  love  with  you,  if  you'll  admit  that  she 
must  have  been  tolerably  in  love  with  me  not  so  long  ago. 
As  between  the  two  of  us,  if  she's  going  to  find  that  she 
prefers  me,  would  you  sooner  she  found  it  out  before  you 
try  to  marry  her  or  after  you're  happily  married?" 

"She's  decided  already." 

"She's  decided  on  false  evidence.  When  I  tell  her  that  it 
was  only  to-night — " 

"You  won't  have  an  opportunity  of  telling  her." 

"You   haven't  much   confidence   in  yourself." 

"I  can't  see  why  we  should  either  of  us  submit  to  being 
bothered  by  you  any  more.  If  you've  nothing  more  to 
say,  I'll  get  back  to  her.  I  warn  you  very  strongly — don't 
make  any  attempt  to  see  her." 

Gaymer  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment  and  then 
drew  himself  slowly  out  of  his  chair  and  walked  to  the  door. 
Eric  picked  up  his  hat  and  left  the  flat  with  a  short,  mur- 
mured "good-night."  As  he  hurried  across  St.  James' 
Park  he  tried  to  sort  his  ideas  into  order  and  to  escape  the 
oppressive  sense  of  uneasiness  which  Gaymer 's  vague 
menaces  had  brought  to  life  again.  The  fellow  could  do 


246  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

nothing — one  said  that  again  and  again,  to  get  the  problem 
in  perspective  and  perhaps  to  rally  one's  courage — ;  he 
could  not  break  down  doors,  Ivy  would  never  consent  to 
speak  to  him,  to  read  his  letters.  .  .  Yet,  if  he  came  and 
haunted  them  when  they  were  married.  .  .  . 

It  was  this  eternal,  insoluble  question  of  the  hold  that  a 
man  retained  on  the  woman  whom  he  had  once  possessed, 
the  hold  of  the  faithless  and  the  brutal  on  those  whom  they 
betrayed  and  ill-treated,  the  hold  which  women  confessed 
and  of  which  some  men  boasted.  Gaymer  had  almost  said 
in  words  that,  as  Ivy  had  once  fallen  to  him,  in  her  great 
first  surrender,  she  would  yield  again  when  he  demanded  it 
of  her.  .  .  Eric  found  himself  leaning  against  a  tree  on 
the  Mall,  idly  watching  the  taxis  which  raced  with  a  jar  and 
rattle  towards  Buckingham  Palace.  Here  was  a  sex  dif- 
ference, for  women  retained  no  such  hold  on  their  men. 
And  he  had  spent  half  of  his  life  trying  to  understand  and 
systematize  the  psychology  of  women.  If  Gaymer  fought 
him  for  possession  of  Ivy,  it  was  anybody's  victory. 

The  doctor  was  gone  by  the  time  that  he  reached  his  flat, 
but  the  nurse  reported  that  all  was  well  and  that  her 
patient  was  out  of  danger,  almost  out  of  pain.  He  tele- 
phoned reassuringly  to  Lady  Maitland  and  asked  leave  to 
say  good-night  to  Ivy.  When  he  opened  the  door,  her  eyes 
were  closed,  and  he  felt  a  hot  wave  of  anger  that  he  should 
have  submitted  to  threats  from  a  cad  who  sat  soaking  him- 
self with  brandy,  that  he  should  still  be  threatened.  .  .  . 

Ivy  opened  her  eyes  and  beckoned  to  him,  with  a  smile. 

"Don't  look  so  worried,  dearest!,"  she  whispered.  "I 
know  I'm  being  a  frightful  nuisance  to  you." 

"Are  you  better  ?,"  he  asked,  kissing  her  hand,  which  was 
dry  and  hot. 

"I'm  all  right — honestly.  I  only  feel  rather  tired.  I 
won't  be  a  nuisance  to  you  any  more,  though."  She 


MIRAGE  247 

turned  away  with  a  jerk  that  set  her  short  hair  tossing. 
"You  can  get  rid  of  me  now,  Eric,  if  you  want  to." 

"If  I  want  to?  I  thought  I'd  lost  you  to-day,  Ivy.  It 
wasn't  a  very  pleasant  feeling." 

"Would  you  really  be  sorry.  .  .?"  She  stretched  out  her 
hand  and  caught  his  wrist.  "Eric,  be  honest  with  me! 
You  can  get  rid  of  me  now —  Oh,  that  sounds  so  horribly 
ungracious!  But  you  know  what  I  mean.  Do  you  want 
me,  Eric,  or  were  you  just  sacrificing  yourself  for  me?  Tell 
me  honestly.  I  can  bear  it." 

She  turned  her  face  to  him  again;  and  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  narrowed  and  her  lips  tightly  shut,  as  though 
she  were  nerving  herself  to  be  struck. 

"Can  I  keep  you,  if  I  want  you?,"  he  asked. 

"You  know  you  can." 

"And  is  it  love — or  because  you  think  you  ought  to? 
That's  what  I've  been  waiting  to  find  out  all  these  weary 
weeks." 

"You  needn't  have  waited,  my  precious  darling!  / 
knew  that  first  day  at  Maidenhead." 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

NIGHT 

"So  when  morning  was  come,  he  goes  to  them  in  a  surly  manner, 
as  before,  and  perceiving  them  to  be  very  sore  with  the  stripes 
that  he  had  given  them  the  day  before,  he  told  them,  that  since 
they  were  never  like  to  come  out  of  that  place,  their  only  way 
would  be,  forthwith  to  make  an  end  of  themselves,  either  with 
knife,  halter,  or  poison :  'For  why,'  said  he,  'should  you  choose 
life,  seeing  it  is  attended  with  so  much  bitterness  ?' " 

JOHN  BUNYAN:  "THE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS." 

WHEN  the  nurse  came  to  turn  him  out  of  the  room,  Eric 
steadied  himself  and  tried  to  walk  into  the  library  as  though 
nothing  unusual  had  happened.  Once  there,  with  the 
morning's  letters  still  unanswered  and  the  evening's  un- 
opened, he  could  not  decide  what  to  do.  Forgotten  names, 
from  a  dream-world  that  he  had  forsaken,  assailed  him  with 
clamorous  insistence;  his  friends,  of  course,  could  not 
realize  that  for  days  all  his  interest  had  been  concentrated 
on  Ivy  and  Gaymer,  with  the  judge  and  Gaisford  and  his 
own  dim  family  grouped  in  the  middle  distance.  Absurd 
urgency  to  secure  his  presence  at  the  opera:  "L'Heure 
espagnole,  it's  being  given  for  the  first  time" ;  letters  from 
America,  informing  him  that  the  writers,  who  would  never 
forget  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  in  New  York,  were  on 
their  way  to  England.  .  .  In  three  days  their  world  was  as 
remote  from  him  as  Venusburg  from  the  regenerate  Tann- 
haiiser ;  America  was  but  a  country  in  which  he  had  thought 
of  rinding  a  sanctuary  for  his  wife.  There  was  no  need 
now  for  him  to  take  Ivy  abroad ;  and  for  three  weeks  he  had 
worked  and  schemed  in  the  expectation  of  going  to  America 
in  the  autumn  for  six  months  or  a  year.  .  .  . 

248 


NIGHT  249 

Readjustment.  .  .  . 

The  telephone-bell  rang,  and  a  woman's  voice  enquired 
for  him : 

"It's  Lady  John  Carstairs  speaking.  I'm  so  sorry  to  hear 
about  poor  Miss  Maitland.  Amy  Loring  told  me  at  dinner. 
How  is  she?  I  was  wondering  if  there  was  anything  I 
could  do.  You've  got  all  the  doctors  and  nurses  you  want, 
of  course,  but  it  must  be  such  an  upset  for  a  bachelor 
establishment.  My  husband  wanted  to  know  if  you'd  care 
for  a  bed  here;  we  can  give  you  a  little  room  where  you'll 
be  able  to  work  undisturbed.  .  .  ." 

As  he  thanked  her,  Eric  smiled  wearily  to  himself  at  the 
speed  and  thoroughness  of  Gaisford's  workings.  In 
twenty-four  hours  it  would  be  known  from  one  end  of  his 
little  London  to  the  other  that  "Connie  Maitland's  niece, 
who  was  helping  Eric  Lane  in  the  absence  of  his  secretary," 
had  collapsed  unexpectedly  with  appendicitis.  He  assisted 
the  report  on  its  way  by  cancelling  two  dinner  invitations 
and  an  engagement  for  the  week-end;  growing  bold  in 
mendacity,  he  stereotyped  the  story,  as  he  had  told  it  to  the 
judge,  and  despatched  it  with  a  late  bulletin  to  his  mother. 
By  this  time  there  was  no  harm  in  telling  Lady  Maitland 
that  she  might  come  any  day,  provided  that  she  did  not  try 
to  stay  more  than  a  moment. 

The  swift-flying  rumour  of  London  dinner-tables  was 
sometimes  an  occasion  for  blessing.  In  three  weeks'  time 
Ivy  could  be  moved ;  the  news  of  their  engagement  would 
flash  from  house  to  house;  'romance,'  hard-worked  and  ill- 
used,  would  be  pressed  into  service  as  thought-saving 
description  until  he  might  hope  to  be  spared,  even  in  the 
echo  of  a  whisper,  hearing  the  name  of  Barbara  Neave  or  of 
John  Gaymer.  He  was  too  tired  to  cope  with  the  tumult 
which  their  names  conjured  up  ;  he  tried  to  forget  them.  .  .  . 

Yet  even  now  Gaymer  could  not  be  left  where  he  was. 

"There  is  one  thing  which  I  must  add  to  our  conversation 


250  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

of  this  evening,"  Eric  wrote.  "Ivy  and  I  are  definitely  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  I  write  this  in  confidence,  as  the  en- 
gagement cannot  be  announced  until  I  have  been  through 
the  formality  of  seeing  her  father.  TlUs  I  hope  to  do  im- 
mediately. You  will  probably  agree  that  this  is  the  most 
definite  answer  to  the  question  which  you  were  proposing 
to  raise." 

He  signed  the  letter  and  returned  to  the  unexplored  pile 
,in  front  of  him.  The  invitations  stretched  far  into  the 
summer,  but  for  the  future  he  must  take  Ivy  into  partner- 
ship in  dealing  with  them ;  there  were  the  customary  appeals 
.for  money,  opinions  and  advice,  the  usual  requests  for  in- 
terviews, articles  and  lectures;  a  long  envelope  contained 
the  draft  of  the  will  which  he  had  instructed  his  solicitors  to 
make  for  safeguarding  Ivy  in  the  event  of  his  dying  sud- 
denly. The  necessity  had  almost  passed;  but,  as  he  read 
through  the  provisions,  he  filled  in  her  name  and  rang  for 
•his  two  maids  to  come  and  witness  his  signature.  From 
investments  alone  they  would  have  rather  more  than  a 
thousand  a  year,  which  was  tolerable  even  in  days  of 
swollen  prices;  in  addition  he  could  reasonably  hope  that 
his  plays  would  not  all  cease  suddenly  and  at  the  same 
moment  to  yield  him  any  fees.  His  income,  taken  on  an 
average,  was  probably  far  bigger  than  Mr.  Justice  Maitland 
enjoyed  from  salary  and  securities. 

Eric  became  absorbed  in  his  calculations  and  worked  at 
them  until  he  was  too  tired  to  see  any  more.  Ivy  and  he 
would  have  enough  for  a  flat  in  London  and  a  cottage  in 
the  country;  they  could  winter  abroad  and  travel  to  their 
hearts'  content;  when  children  came,  they  could  be  given 
the  best  upbringing  and  education,  as  befitted  the  beautiful, 
dark-haired,  grey-eyed  children  that  Ivy  would  bear. 
'Hitherto  he  had  never  thought  of  himself  as  a  father ;  and 
(he  fell  asleep  with  a  new,  delightful  picture  of  Ivy  holding 
their  first  child  in  her  arms,  herself  but  a  child  still.  .  .  . 


NIGHT  251 

Next  day  a  budget  of  sympathetic  enquiries  awaited 
him,  and  he  was  kept  busy  with  pen  and  telephone.  There 
were  presents  of  flowers  and  fruit,  offers  of  personal  as- 
sistance, general  invitations  and  an  embarrassing  procession 
of  callers.  Eric  debated  with  himself  whether  to  issue 
orders  that  Captain  Gaymer  was  not  to  be  admitted;  he 
decided  that,  if  his  letter  were  not  enough  of  a  deterrent, 
there  would  at  least  be  no  attempt  at  a  forced  entry  for 
some  days. 

Though  he  kept  reassuring  himself,  it  was  a  shock  to 
receive  a  letter  in  the  evening  and  to  trace  the  straggling, 
unfamiliar  writing  down  to  the  signature  "Yours  sincerely 
John  Gaymer."  Eric  felt  his  heart  beating  more  quickly 
as  he  turned  to  the  opening  words : 

"I  have  your  letter.  All  that  you  say  may  be  true,  but  it 
doesn't  affect  my  point.  So  far  as  I  know,  the  facts  have 
never  been  put  before  Ivy.  Will  you  tell  her  that  I  should 
like  to  see  her  as  soon  as  she's  well  enough?  The  issue  is 
quite  plain." 

Eric  locked  the  letter  away  in  a  despatch-box  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  library,  trying  to  compose  himself  before 
Gaisford  came  in  from  the  sick-room.  Even  without  Gay- 
mer, the  last  few  weeks  had  been  sufficiently  exhausting — 
first  Ivy,  then  Barbara  and  the  succession  of  unnerving  en- 
counters with  her ;  and,  before  that,  the  shock  of  her  mar- 
riage, the  torturing  sense  of  betrayal,  the  endless  nights 
and  days  of  inward  raving  and  outward  stoicism  in  which 
he  had  travelled  and  lectured  and  written  from  end  to  end 
of  America  like  an  effigy  of  himself  with  the  spirit 
torn  out  and  bleeding  apart ;  and,  before  that,  the  two  years 
of  illness  and  madness.  It  was  not  surprising  if  he  some- 
times felt  that  something  in  his  head,  just  behind  the  eyes, 
would  snap;  it  was  unpleasantly  surprising  to  calculate  that 
he  had  not  felt  well  for  months,  that  he  was  half -consciously 
waiting  to  hear  the  snap. 


252  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

He  was  sitting  with  his  head  bent  forward,  squeezing 
his  fists  against  his  temples,  when  the  doctor  came  in.  The 
door  was  open,  and  Eric  never  knew  how  long  Gaisford 
had  stood  watching  him  before  he  looked  up;  and,  though 
he  rallied  at  once  and  asked  steadily  enough  for  the  even- 
ing report,  he  felt  trapped. 

"She's  doing  very  nicely,"  said  Gaisford,  still  looking  at 
him  curiously'.  "If  you  don't  let  people  see  her  till  I  give 
you  leave — ." 

"You  can  trust  me  for  that,"  Eric  interrupted. 

"And  if  I  say  you're  not  to  see  her  yourself  ?" 

"I  shouldn't  dream  of  going  near  her  against  your 
orders !" 

The  doctor  silenced  him  with  a  grunt  and  began  digging 
like  an  industrious  terrier  among  the  papers  on  the  writing 
table. 

"Tell  me  where  you  keep  your  cigars  and  don't  become 
theatrical,"  he  advised.  "Since  when  have  you  started 
this  flattering  regard  for  my  orders  ?" 

"I've  done  everything  you've  told  me  to." 

"Since  yesterday  morning.  In  other  days  I  used  to  pre- 
scribe for  you,  I've  even  pulled  you  out  of  one  or  two 
tight  corners  for  which  posterity  is  likely  to  be  more  grate- 
ful to  me  than  you  are.  Shoo!  Shoo!  Shoo!  Seniores 
priores.  I'm  doing  the  talking.  Well,  you've  always  had 
the  sense  and  justice  to  admit  that  you  wouldn't  have  got 
into  eighty  per  cent,  of  those  same  tight  corners,  if  you'd 
followed  my  orders  earlier.  D'you  remember  the  man  in 
Kipling  who  always  prophesied  trouble  in  the  Balkans  in 
the  spring?  It  was  a  fairly  safe  shot.  I  always  seem  to 
prophesy  a  nervous  breakdown  in  about  a  fortnight's  time 
for  you.  Before  you  go  to  bed  this  night,  I'm  going  to  over- 
haul you;  and  then  you're  going  away — not  for  my  sake, 
nor  for  yours,  but  for  your  young  woman's.  You're  no 
use  to  her,  if  you  smash  up ;  and  you're  going  to  smash  up, 


NIGHT  253 

unless  you  take  in  sail.  What's  the  trouble?  I  left  a  mes- 
sage last  night  to  say  she  was  out  of  danger." 

"And,  before  that,  you  sent  me  off  to  have  a  nice,  bright 
dinner.  .  .  I  tumbled  across  that  swine  Gaymer,  and  you 
may  be  amused  to  hear  that  we  dined  together.  Gaymer  had 
never  suspected  anything  till  that  moment;  he  appreciated 
that  there  was  a  certain  coolness  and  he  was  leaving  her  to 
come  to  her  senses!  Now.  .  .  ." 

Eric  jumped  up  and  shut  the  door,  conscious  that  he  was 
scoring  bad  marks  against  himself  by  his  restlessness  but 
hardly  caring  to  keep  up  pretences  any  longer. 

"Well?"  said  Gaisford. 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  He  swears  he's  in  love  with  her, 
wants  to  marry  her.  And  he's  made  up  his  mind  to  see 
her." 

"I  shall  have  something  to  say  about  that  for  the  next 
three  weeks." 

"And  by  then  the  engagement  will  be  announced.  The 
judge  told  me  he  was  going  away  to-morrow,  but  as  soon 
as  he  comes  back.  .  ." 

"What's  troubling  you,  then?" 

Eric  continued  to  pace  up  and  down  between  the  windows 
and  the  door,  staring  at  the  carpet,  locking  and  unlocking 
his  fingers  behind  his  back  and  trying  to  find  words  for  the 
new  doubt  which  Ivy  had  not  resolved  even  when  she 
promised  herself  to  him  the  night  before : 

"I'm  not  easy  in  my  mind.  .  .  I  don't  know.  .  .  Does 
a  woman  ever  break  her  first  lover's  spell  ?  I  seem  uncertain 
of  everything." 

"Then  you'd  better  put  it  to  the  test.  You'll  be  a  fool  to 
marry  her,  if  you  think  she'll  come  at  the  other  man's 
whistle.  I  told  you  that — weeks  ago,  in  this  very  room, 
when  we  first  discussed  it.  Let  him  see  her,  let  her  make  up 
her  mind." 


254  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"She's  made  it  up.  If  he  comes,  she'll  send  him  away 
again." 

"Then  she  has  broken  the  spell?  I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  not  following  you  very  well.  .  ." 

Eric  laughed  mirthlessly : 

"I'm  not  surprised.  Sometimes,  Gaisford,  you  get  a  feel- 
ing which  won't  bear  analysis  or  definition  or  argument; 
it's  just  there.  .  .  I  left  Gaymer  yesterday  in  a  state  of 
panic.  I  felt  that  he  was  the  better  man.  He  was  doing 
prodigies  of  valour  in  the  war,  while  I  was  collecting  re- 
jection papers ;  and  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  women 
care  for  anything  but  the  best  animal  on  the  market.  Fas- 
tidiousness in  conduct,  super-culture,  the  ability  to  'see  two 
points  in  Hamlet's  soul  unseized  by  the  Germans  yet' — all 
that  may  appeal  to  some,  but  they're  atrophied  women,  with- 
out sex.  The  war  has  made  our  scale  of  values  very  primi- 
tive. .  .  When  I  was  at  school,  I  wasn't  allowed  to  play 
games ;  and,  if  other  people  despised  me  in  consequence, 
you  bet  your  life  I  despised  myself  more;  I  never  had  a 
friend,  in  consequence,  till  I  went  up  to  Oxford.  .  .  The 
war  was  a  fair  test  whether  a  man  was  a  man — in  courage, 
physical  endurance,  ability  to  command  and  to  obey,  herd- 
capacity  to  protect  the  female,  the  young,  the  home.  Well, 
I  couldn't  survive  that  test.  Better  a  live  crock  than  a  dead 
hero,  you  may  think,  if  you  happen  to  be  one  of  the  crocks ; 
but,  when  I  left  Gaymer  last  night,  when  I  stood  leaning 
against  a  tree  in  the  Park  picturing  the  pair  of  us  as  two 
males  fighting  for  one  female,  I  said,  'You  drunken  brute, 
you're  the  better  man.'  And,  if  I  feel  that,  a  woman  will 
feel  it,  too.  .  .  Ivy  loves  me ;  I'm  quite  sure  of  that.  But 
I've  never  imagined  she  felt  any  passion  for  me,  you 
wouldn't  expect  it  in  her  present  state.  Undoubtedly  she 
once  felt  passion  for  Gaymer.  .  .  You  want  to  know  what's 
worrying  me.  Well,  it's  just  that." 

"And  you've  lost  confidence  in  yourself  so  much  that, 


NIGHT  255 

if  the  girl  came  to  you  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  protesting 
that  she  preferred  you  and  didn't  want  to  see  the  other  man, 
you  still  wouldn't  believe  her.  Go  away  for  a  holiday,  Eric. 
If  I  agreed  with  your  sex-generalizations  about  'better  men' 
and  'finer  animals' — I  don't;  and  I  suspect  you  of  taking 
your  psychology  from  novels  by  unmarried  women — ,  I 
should  tell  you  you're  becoming  relatively  worse  and  worse 
every  day  that  you  neglect  your  health.  Go  right  away  for  a 
few  weeks." 

"I  don't  like  leaving  Ivy  at  Gaymer's  mercy." 

"Then  agree  with  him  that  he  may  come  and  get  his  conge 
from  the  girl's  own  lips,  if  he'll  promise  not  to  bother  her 
till  she's  well  again.  Now  I'm  going  home.  And  you'd  bet- 
ter cut  off  to  bed  and  stop  thinking  about  anything." 

The  next  morning  Eric  drafted,  copied  and  redrafted  a 
letter  to  Gaymer : 

"I  have  not  given  your  message  to  Ivy"  he  wrote  finally, 
"because  she  is  not  well  enough  to  be  worried  even  with  a 
hint  of  such  a  thing.  I  should  have  thought  that  she  had 
made  her  meaning  quite  clear,  but,  if  you  need  to  be  con- 
vinced by  hearing  it  again  from  her,  I  will  suggest  that  she 
disabuse  your  mind  once  and  for  all.  Whether  she  will 
see  you  or  not  I  cannot  say;  and,  if  she  refuse,  I  shall  not 
allow  you  to  molest  her.  If  she  consent,  it  must  be  on  one 
condition;  you  must  not  attempt  to  see  her  or  to  com- 
municate with  her  for  a  month  from  now.  If  you  tell  me 
that  you  agree,  I  will  put  this  proposal  before  her." 

There  was  no  answer  to  the  letter,  but,  as  Eric  left  his 
club  the  following  night,  he  met  Gaymer  returning  from 
dinner  with  the  Poynters  in  Belgrave  Square.  They  so  nar- 
rowly avoided  a  collision  that  it  was  useless  for  either  to 
pretend  that  he  had  not  seen  the  other.  Both  stopped  short 
and  stood  silent ;  then  Eric  said : 

"Hullo!" 


256  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Gaymer  half  put  out  his  hand,  withdrew  it  and  put  it  out 
again. 

"Hullo!,"  he  answered  with  unwonted  apparent  cordi- 
ality. "You  going  my  way?" 

"I'm  rather  tired.  I  think  I  shall  take  the  Tube  to  Dover 
Street,"  said  Eric,  reflecting  rapidly  that  Gaymer  could  not 
reach  Buckingham  Gate  by  that  route  without  fetching  a 
wide  compass. 

"Split  the  difference  and  walk  with  me  as  far  as  Lan- 
caster House,"  Gaymer  suggested.  "I  got  your  letter.  I'll 
say  at  once  that  I  accept  the  conditions.  You'd  probably 
prefer  to  have  it  in  writing — " 

"That's  not  necessary,  is  it?,"  Eric  interrupted  quickly 
and  in  embarrassment. 

Gaymer  chuckled  malevolently.  He  had  hitherto  spoken 
seriously  and  with  a  touch  of  dignity,  hiding  any  antagonism 
that  he  might  feel  under  an  easy  but  disconcerting  friendli- 
ness. The  dignity  and  restraint  were  shattered  by  the 
chuckle. 

"You  mean  that,  if  I'm  going  to  break  my  word,"  he 
said,  "I  shall  break  it  just  the  same  whether  it  was  in  writ- 
ing or  not  ?" 

"No,  I  meant  that,  if  you  gave  me  your  word,  I  should 
accept  it  without  any  bonds  or  witnesses." 

"Devilish  good  of  you.  .  ."  Gaymer  paused  and  took 
out  his  cigarette-case.  "You  talk  just  like  your  own  plays." 
He  paused  again  and  fumbled  with  an  automatic  lighter. 
"Babs  Neave  always  used  to  say  that." 

In  his  turn  Eric  paused  and  began  to  fill  a  pipe.  They 
had  gone  too  far  into  the  Green  Park  for  him  to  branch  off 
and  seek  the  Down  Street  station ;  he  could  not  turn  on  his 
heel  and  refuse  to  walk  farther  with  the  fellow ;  yet  Gaymer 
was  steadily  and  progressively  attacking  him,  first  with  com- 
mon rudeness,  then  with  a  sneer  at  his  work,  finally  with  a 
depth-charge  which  he  exploded  to  see  what  effect  the  name 


NIGHT  257 

of  Barbara  would  produce.  Gaymer  had  known  much  and 
suspected  all;  he  had  been  present,  when  Eric  and  Barbara 
first  met  at  dinner  with  Lady  Poynter;  he  had  speculated 
with  the  rest  of  them  and  had  once  interrogated  Barbara 
about  her  "writer  fellow"  until  she  froze  his  jesting.  .  . 
Intoxication  might  explain  much,  but  it  provided  no  motive 
for  the  baiting  unless  Gaymer  wanted  the  satisfaction  of  a 
brawl  which  would  contribute  nothing  to  the  problem  of 
Ivy. 

"Even  off  the  stage  one  accepts  a  man's  word,  until  he's 
proved  that  it's  unworthy  of  acceptance,"  said  Eric. 

"And  you're  satisfied  with  mine?,"  asked  Gaymer.  "It's 
not  so  long  since  you  thought  I'd  broken  my  word  to 
Ivy." 

He  was  still  obviously  exploring  for  a  quarrel,  but  Eric 
would  not  help  him. 

"It's  easier,  if  we  confine  ourselves  to  the  future,"  he  said. 
"You've  given  me  your  word  and  you  can  see  Ivy — if  she'll 
see  you;  I'll  ask  her  to — as  soon  as  she's  well  enough. 
And  you  won't  try  to  get  in  touch  with  her  till  then,  will 
you?  I  shan't  do  anything  to  prejudice  you.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I'm  going  away  for  a  few  weeks,  but,  until  the  time 
comes,  I'll  promise  not  to  queer  your  pitch,  if  you'll  promise 
to  wait  till  you're  sent  for.  Is  that  a  bargain?  After  all, 
it's  not  to  the  interest  of  either  of  us  to  injure  her  health." 

They  had  reached  Lancaster  House,  and  Eric  held  out  his 
hand.  Gaymer  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  gripped  it. 

"I  was  only  ragging  you,  Lane,"  he  said  with  an  awk- 
ward laugh.  "Dining  with  Aunt  Margaret  fairly  gets  on  my 
.nerves:  she's  like  a  gramophone  with  all  the  newest  and 
most  expensive  "intellectual"  records.  Turn  the  handle, 
put  in  a  new  needle;  "The  Psychoanalyst's  Ragtime  Holi- 
day, as  played  by  the  Freud-Jung  syncopated  orchestra".  .  . 
Does  she  know  anything  about  anything?.  .  .  And  that 
fellow  Poynter  riles  me.  'Told  me  to-night  that  my  job 


258  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

had  fallen  through  and  I  was  to  be  patient.  .  .  He's  simply 
not  trying.  .  .  I'll  keep  the  bargain — letter  and  spirit.  In 
the  meantime  you're  not  announcing  the  engagement?  I 
can't  consent  to  that,  you  know;  it  prejudices  my  chances, 
if  Ivy  has  that  to  explain  away." 

"I'll  wait  till  she's  seen  you,  if  you  like,"  said  Eric. 
"Honestly,  it  won't  make  any  difference  to  you,  but  I  want 
to  play  fair.  Good-night.  One  of  us  will  write  to  you 
soon." 

The  next  day  he  broke  the  news  to  Ivy  that  he  was  going 
to  the  country.  Her  face  fell  at  the  prospect  of  being  left 
alone,  but  the  doctor  came  in  before  the  discussion  was  over 
and  quenched  the  first  smoke  of  opposition. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I've  seen  something  of 
Gaymer  the  last  few  days,"  Eric  told  her,  when  he  came  to 
say  good-bye.  "He's  very  anxious  to  see  you.  He  didn't 
know  you  were  ill,  he  didn't  suspect  any  reason  why  you 
should  be.  I  don't  quite  know  what  he  told  you  at  Croxton, 
but  he  assures  me  that  he  regards  himself  as  being  still 
engaged  to  you.  I  reminded  him  that  you'd  already  given 
him  his  answer,  but  he  persisted  that  there  are  new  facts. 
If  you  don't  want  to  see  him — " 

"I  don't!,"  Ivy  cried  in  apprehension.  "You  must  keep 
him  away." 

It  was  an  appeal  for  protection,  but  Eric  could  not  pro- 
tect her  against  an  attack  which  had  not  been  launched.  It 
wrung  his  heart  to  see  Ivy  helpless  and  pleading,  but  he 
was  so  tired  that  he  would  gladly  have  dropped  into  a  trance 
where  responsibility  and  striving  were  unknown,  where  he 
could  rest,  where  no  one  could  blame  him  or  attack  him  or 
appeal  to  him.  .  .  . 

"He  won't  take  it  from  me,"  he  pointed  out — and  was 
hurt  to  see  that  Ivy  was  disappointed  in  him  for  the  first 
time.  He  wondered  how  Gaymer  would  have  spoken  and 
acted,  if  the  positions  had  been  reversed.  .  .  . 


NIGHT  259 

"I  can't  see  him  without  you !" 

"My  child,  then  don't  see  him  at  all.  When  you  feel  well 
enough,  send  him  a  line  and  tell  him  that  nothing  he  could 
ever  say  or  do  would  make  any  difference." 

When  Eric  reached  Lashmar  Mill-House,  he  found  that 
an  inaccurate  but  serviceable  legend  had  already  been  woven 
round  Ivy's  illness.  For  days  and  nights,  he  gathered,  he 
had  been  nursing  her  single-handed,  which  accounted  for 
a  natural  look  of  fatigue  on  his  face;  for  the  operation  his 
flat  had  been  turned  upside  down,  and  he  had  now  been 
driven  out  to  make  way  for  a  second  nurse.  It  was  an 
explanation  which  barred  all  speculation  about  his  own  health 
and  absolved  him  from  confessing  that  he  was  himself  in 
Gaisford's  hands. 

"Will  you  be  able  to  have  Ivy  down  here,  when  she's  fit 
to  move?,"  he  asked. 

"Of  course,"  Lady  Lane  answered  warmly. 

"She'll  be  convalescent  in  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks.  I 
was  thinking  of  staying  here  in  the  meantime.  .  .  The 
country's  looking  very  beautiful.  I  think  I  shall  go  for  a 
stroll  before  dinner." 

He  walked  through  the  house  and  crossed  the  mill-stream 
into  the  woods  by  the  plank -bridge  over  the  wheel.  Unless 
he  prompted  her,  his  mother  would  patiently  abstain  from 
asking  him  about  Ivy;  but  there  was  an  unspoken  question 
in  her  very  silence,  she  was  sharing  his  anxiety  and  his 
hopes,  waiting  hungrily  to  be  told  that  all  was  well.  It  was 
curious  that  he  felt  so  much  less  certain  of  Ivy  since  she 
had  promised  to  marry  him.  Gaymer  was  so  sure  of  himself 
that  he  must  inevitably  overpower  her ;  people  always 
seemed  to  win  if  they  were  convinced  that  they  would 
win.  .  . 

And,  conversely,  no  man  ever  won  unless  he  believed  in 
himself.  Eric  pulled  himself  together  physically,  holding 
his  head  up  and  walking  boldly  instead  of  shambling.  He  be- 


260  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

lieved  in  himself  and  he  believed  in  Ivy.  Unless  a  woman 
were  dead  to  honour  and  gratitude,  he  had  nothing  to 
fear. 

A  fallen  tree  trunk  barred  his  path.  He  was  glad  to  sit 
down  on  it,  because  he  was  too  tired  to  go  on  walking  with 
any  pleasure,  and  his  train  of  thought  had  incapacitated 
him  like  a  blow  at  the  back  of  his  knees.  Barbara,  who  ad- 
mitted always  that  she  loved  him,  even  when  it  was  too  late, 
had  broken  down  at  that  test ;  he  had  confidently  left  every- 
thing to  her  honour  and  gratitude.  .  .  Women  were  not  to 
be  trusted.  .  .  But  he  trusted  Ivy.  .  .  Yet  should  he  trust 
her? 

The  moment's  pause  had  not  rested  him,  but  he  jumped 
up  because  it  was  harder  to  brood  when  he  was  walking 
quickly.  Besides,  this  holiday  had  to  be  taken  very  seriously. 
He  had  thought  out  a  scheme  which  was  to  put  him  in  hard 
physical  condition ;  a  plunge  into  the  mill-pool  as  soon  as  he 
was  called,  a  sensible  breakfast  instead  of  the  jaded  Lon- 
doner's tea  and  toast,  a  glance  at  his  letters  and  the  papers, 
one  pipe  (and  no  more;  no  cigarettes,  either),  a  line  to 
Ivy  and  then  a  good  tramp,  wet  or  fine,  from  ten  till  one, 
a  bath  and  change  of  clothes,  luncheon,  another  pipe,  a  sec- 
ond walk  till  tea  or,  perhaps,  dinner,  a  third  pipe  and  a  book, 
with  bed  at  half -past  ten.  That,  if  anything,  would  keep 
him  from  worrying  and  make  him  sleep.  He  looked  at  his 
watch  and  almost  decided  to  begin  the  treatment  then  and 
there  with  six  miles  on  the  high-road  before  dinner.  If  he 
elected  to  saunter  on  through  the  woods,  it  was  because  he 
was  really  too  tired  to  face  the  glare  of  the  road  and  the 
exertion  of  hard  walking. 

It  was  easier  to  keep  his  resolution  of  going  to  bed  early, 
though  he  made  an  unpromising  start  next  day.  Instead  of 
the  usual  maid  with  letters  and  hot  water,  his  mother  came 
in  unexpectedly  with  breakfast  on  a  tray. 

"You  looked  so  tired  last  night  that  I  thought  I'd  let  you 


NIGHT  261 

have  your  sleep  out,"  she  explained.  "I  waited  till  eleven 
and  then,  thinking  I  heard  signs  of  life —  My  dear  boy,  how 
hot  you  are !"  She  put  down  the  tray  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  chest.  "Your  pyjamas  are  wringing  wet !" 

"Too  many  bed-clothes,  I  expect,"  answered  Eric,  as  he 
inspected  the  handwriting  on  his  letters. 

"There's  only  one  blanket.  And  it  wasn't  at  all  a  hot 
night." 

"Ah,  but  I  can  undertake  to  sweat  away  about  two 
pounds  a  night  in  mid-winter.  I  suppose  it's  because  I  kick 
about  in  bed  so  much." 

"But  you  haven't  any  flesh  to  spare.  I  wish  you  weren't 
so  thin,  Eric." 

"You  mustn't  worry,  mother.  It's  beyond  the  wit  of 
man  to  make  me  fat." 

Lady  Lane  did  not  pursue  the  subject,  but  she  continued 
to  look  anxiously  at  him.  To  turn  her  thoughts,  he  handed 
her  a  note  from  the  nurse  reporting  that  Dr.  Gaisford  was 
wholly  satisfied  with  Miss  Maitland's  progress  and  would  in 
future  not  need  to  see  her  more  than  once  a  day. 

"That  ought  to  make  you  happier,  Eric,"  said  his  mother. 

"It  does.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do,  if  I  lost 
Ivy.  .  ."  His  voice  was  graver  than  he  had  intended,  and 
he  decided  to  go  on  and  to  fortify  himself  by  taking  his 
mother  into  his  confidence.  "You  remember  the  last  time 
we  discussed  her?  You  do  like  her,  mother,  don't  you? 
You  do — approve?  As  soon  as  she's  well  enough,  we're 
going  to  get  everything  fixed  up.  Don't  tell  the  guv'nor 
yet,  because  you  know  he's  temperamentally  incapable  of 
keeping  a  secret.  But  you  are  pleased,  aren't  you?" 

Lady  Lane  bent  down  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"My  blessed  boy!  It's  time  you  had  a  little  happiness. 
And  it's  certainly  time  you  had  a  wife  to  look  after  you." 

What  with  his  letters  and  the  papers,  which  Sir  Francis 
brought  up  in  person,  Eric  narrowly  avoided  being  late  for 


262  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

luncheon;  and  his  scheme  of  diet  and  exercise  was  again 
postponed  by  his  mother's  suggestion  that  he  should  come 
out  with  her  in  the  car.  He  salved  his  conscience  in  con- 
senting by  the  reflection  that  he  would  at  least  be  in  the 
open  air;  when,  however,  Lady  Lane  suggested  after  tea 
that  he  should  lie  down  until  dinner,  he  began  to  scent  a 
conspiracy. 

"You're  looking  so  wretchedly  tired  and  thin  that  I  want 
to  keep  you  from  working,"  confessed  his  mother. 

"Well,  I'll  join  the  conspiracy,"  said  Eric. 

For  a  week  he  spent  half  the  day  in  bed  and  the  other 
half  motoring  or  walking  in  Lashmar  Woods.  If  he  failed 
to  put  on  any  weight,  at  least  he  began  to  feel  less  tired. 
The  ghosts  that  lay  in  wait  for  him  in  London  seemed  to 
have  been  driven  away  by  the  sunshine  and  scented  wind 
of  the  garden.  Every  day  the  nurse  wrote  that  Ivy  was 
maintaining  steady  progress;  he  had  two  reassuring  letters 
from  Gaisford  and  at  last  a  pencilled  note  from  Ivy  her- 
self. 

"I'm  almost  well  and  longing  to  see  you.  Thank  you  for 
all  your  divine  letters.  I'm  counting  the  days  till  you  come 
here  to  fetch  me  away.  Do  thank  your  mother  for  asking 
me — and  for  the  flowers.  I  had  a  long  letter  from  J.  G.  this 
morning,  explaining  and  arguing  and  asking  when  he  might 
come  to  see  me.  He  said  he'd  been  expecting  to  hear  from 
you  and  couldn't  make  out  why  you'd  not  written.  I  told 
him  it  was  no  good;  in  fact,  I  wrote  just  wlwt  I  told  you 
I  would." 

Eric  tried  to  remember  whether  he  had  received  a  specific 
promise  that  Gaymer  would  not  write ;  there  had  been  some 
phrase  about  "not  communicating".  .  .  Gaymer  may  have 
interpreted  this  to  mean  personal  communication;  or  he 
might  be  acting  on  the  principle  that  wise  men  give  promises 
and  fools  accept  them. 

Ivy's  next  letter  narrowed  the  field  of  choice. 


NIGHT  263 

"J.  G.  has  been  here,"  she  began.  "He  called  with  some 
flowers,  and  nurse  let  him  in.  Several  other  people  had 
been,  so  she  never  asked  me.  J  said  at  once,  el  can't  see 
you;'  and  I  told  him  that  I  thought  he'd  promised  you  faith- 
fully not  to  come  here.  He  said  he  only  meant  to  come  to 
the  door  with  the  flowers,  but  that  he  couldn't  help  coming 
in.  He  wasn't  going  to  argue,  he  said,  but  he  was  re- 
sponsible for  everything  and  he  must  come  and  ask  me  to 
forgive  him.  I  told  him  I'd  forgive  him,  if  tliat  gave  him 
any  pleasure,  but  he  must  understand  that  everything  was 
over.  On  the  whole,  I  was  rather  glad  to  have  it  out  with 
him.  He  must  see  now,  because  at  the  end  he  said — hor- 
ribly bitterly — ,  'Your  love  is  rather  short-lived,  Ivy?  I  re- 
fused to  be  drawn.  If  he  likes  to  think  that,  he  may,  1 
don't  feel  ifs  worth  having  a  row  with  him,  Eric,  about 
coming,  because  we  have  cleared  the  air,  however  painful  it 
may  have  been  at  the  time.  And  it  isn't  pleasant,  you  know, 
to  Jiave  him  thinking  that  I'm  unfaithful  to  him.  I  did  love 
him — desperately;  I'm  even  willing  to  believe  now  that  he 
always  meant  to  behave  honourably;  but,  as  I  told  him,  it 
doesn't  really  matter  whether  there's  any  foundation  for  a 
misunderstanding,  wliat  matters  is  the  effect  it  Jias  on  one's 
mind.  It  was  no  use  pretending  I  hadn't  utterly  changed 
towards  him.  He  couldn't  see  how  I  could  love  him  once 
and  then  stop  loving  him,  when  the  reason  why  I'd  ceased  to 
love  him  had  been  explained  away.  He's  tired  me  out,  dear 
Eric,  and  I  don't  want  to  think  about  him,." 

Her  letter  reached  Lashmar  by  the  evening"  post,  and 
Eric  spent  a  sleepless  night  after  reading  it.  At  one  moment 
he  decided  to  return  by  the  first  train  to  London  and  mount 
guard  over  Ivy's  door ;  at  another  he  shuffled  and  discarded 
cryptic  phrases  for  a  warning  telegram  to  Gaisford.  .  .  It 
was  long  after  daybreak  when  he  fell  asleep  without  reach- 
ing a  decision;  and,  when  his  breakfast  was  brought  in,  he 


264  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

was  too  tired  to  eat  it  or  to  read  his  letters  or  to  begin  get- 
ting up. 

Only  when  Lady  Lane  asked  leave  to  send  for  the  doctor 
did  he  rouse  to  interest. 

"Your  man  here  is  such  a  hopeless  idiot,"  he  exclaimed 
impatiently.  "I  think  I  shall  run  up  and  see  Gaisford.  All 
I  want  is  a  tonic,  but  he  does  know  about  me.  I  can't  stand 
answering  a  string  of  questions  from  a  stranger." 

Lady  Lane  forbore  to  oppose  him  in  his  new  mood  of 
nervous  irritability;  she  contented  herself  with  making  him 
promise  to  come  down  the  following  day  and  asking  whether 
he  would  care  for  her  to  accompany  him.  Her  obvious 
anxiety  jarred  on  nerves  that  were  already  raw. 

"I'm  really  all  right,  mother,"  he  answered  querulously. 

"My  dear  boy,  you're  not\  I  have  had  some  experience 
of  you,  remember.  You're  shockingly  ill.  You  know  I  try 
not  to  worry  you,  when  you're  not  feeling  well,  but  you 
frighten  me,  Eric,  when  you  look  like  that.  Isn't  there 
something  you  haven't  told  me?  Can't  you  tell  me?.  .  . 
People  are  commenting  on  it.  After  church  on  Sunday  the 
vicar  wanted  to  know.  .  .  So,  you  see,  it  isn't  just  fancy. 
I  have  a  pretty  handful  in  your  father,  as  it  is, — trying  to 
make  him  take  care  of  himself.  I  can't  have  you  getting 
ill.  .  .  Isn't  there  anything,  Eric?" 

His  mother  had  come  nearer  to  breaking  down  than  he 
had  ever  seen;  a  vague  stirring  of  masculine  protectiveness 
steadied  Eric. 

"I'm  feeling  used  up,"  he  answered  wearily.  "It  may  be 
this  hot  spring.  .  .  I  think  it's  the  war.  .  .  and  the  strain 
of  the  last  few  weeks,  the  strain  of  the  last  two  or  three 
years.  .  .  It  takes  something  to  drive  me  into  a  doctor's 
arms,  but  I'll  get  myself  thoroughly  overhauled  by  Gaisford 
and,  what's  more,  I'll  tell  you  what  he  says  and  I'll  carry 
out  his  orders  to  the  letter.  There's  no  need  for  you  to 
worry,  mother." 


NIGHT  265 

He  kissed  her  with  a  bluff  attempt  at  reassurance  and 
scrambled  out  of  bed.  It  was  humiliating  that  he  had  to 
steady  himself  by  gripping  the  top  of  his  dressing-table,  and, 
when  he  began  to  pour  out  his  shaving-water,  as  much 
slopped  on  to  the  wash-hand-stand  as  went  into  his  glass. 
He  could  only  hope  that,  as  she  said  nothing,  his  mother 
had  seen  nothing. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  he  reached  Waterloo,  and, 
after  dining  at  his  club,  he  drove  to  Dr.  Gaisford's  house  in 
Wimpolej  Street.  The  butler,  who  was  a  friend  of  many 
years'  standing,  regretted  that  his  master  was  not  yet  re- 
turned and  invited  Eric  to  come  in  and  wait. 

"I  suppose  you've  no  idea  where  he  is  or  how  long  he'll 
be?,"  asked  Eric. 

The  butler  retired  to  the  consulting-room  and  returned 
with  an  engagement-pad. 

"He  dined  at  home  at  half  after  seven,  sir,"  he  announced. 
"Then  he  was  going  to  Sir  Marcus  Fordyce  in  Hay  Hill, 
then  to  Mrs.  Grimthorpe  in  Upper  Brook  Street,  then  to 
Colonel  Somers  in  Half-Moon  Street — and  then  to  you,  sir; 
to  your  young  lady,  I  should  say.  He  said  he'd  be  back  not 
later  than  twelve." 

"And  it's  half-past  nine  now.  I'll  go  home  and  wait  for 
him.  If  I  miss  him,  will  you  tell  him,  when  he  comes  in, 
that  I  called?  And  will  you  ring  me  up  and  let  me  know 
when  I  can  see  him  to-morrow  ?  Say  I've  come  up  from  the 
country  on  purpose." 

He  reached  Ryder  Street  in  time  to  find  the  hall  lit  up  and 
a  bowler  hat  and  stick  on  the  table.  The  whole  flat  was 
sweet  and  heavy  with  the  warm  scent  of  flowers.  They 
symbolized  Ivy,  and  he  could  fancy  that  he  was  already 
married  and  returning  to  their  home.  It  was  a  new,  electri- 
fying emotion,  the  sublime  epitome  of  all  the  moments  when 
he  had  waited  of  a  morning  to  hear  her  ring.  Latterly  she 


266  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

had  been  too  much  the  patient;  until  that  moment  the  flat 
had  not  drawn  its  life  from  her. 

A  murmur  of  voices  reached  him  from  the  passage  lead- 
ing to  her  bedroom ;  he  wrote  "Don't  go  till  you've  seen  me" 
on  the  back  of  an  envelope  and  dropped  it  into  the  hat; 
then  he  picked  up  the  evening  paper  and  went  into  the  li- 
brary. 

At  the  end  of  one  cigarette  he  threw  away  the  paper  and 
looked  sleepily  at  the  clock,  thanking  Heaven  that  he  was  not 
a  doctor.  At  this  rate  Gaisford  would  not  be  home  by  mid- 
night ;  and  he  must  have  had  a  heavy  day  to  be  calling  on  pa- 
tients after  dinner.  .  .  The  sleepiness  dropped  from  Eric's 
brain  as  he  remembered  an  early  bulletin  from  the  nurse, 
telling  him  that  for  the  future  Dr.  Gaisford  saw  no  need  to 
come  more  than  once  a  day.  The  most  overworked  doctor 
would  not  be  paying  his  first  visit  at  a  quarter-past  ten  at 
night;  this  was  the  second  visit,  and  Ivy  had  undergone 
a  relapse;  or  the  third,  the  fourth.  .  .  If  Ivy  were  dying, 
they  would  have  sent  for  him.  .  .  Telegrams  took  long.  .  . 
But  Lashmar  Mill-House  was  on  the  telephone.  .  .  Trunk- 
calls  took  long,  too.  .  .  But  he  had  not  left  home  till  after 
five.  .  .  Perhaps  they  had  forgotten,  perhaps  they  had 
been  too  busy.  .  .  .  But  one  could  add  "perhaps"  to  "per- 
haps" like  paper  bows  to  the  tail  of  a  kite.  .  .  This  was  the 
discordant  jangle  of  snapping  nerves.  .  .  . 

He  sat  long  enough  to  recover  self-possession,  then 
strolled  unconcernedly  into  the  hall.  The  hat  and  stick 
were  still  there,  the  note  in  the  hat.  He  bent  down  to  read 
his  own  words  and  wondered  why  Gaisford,  of  all  men,  had 
abandoned  his  traditional  silk  hat  for  a  bowler.  .  .  A 
sporting  bowler,  too  with  flat  brim.  He  was  trying  to  re- 
member whether  there  were  any  races  near  London  to  ex- 
plain the  unseemly  hat  and  the  doctor's  no  less  unseemly 
hour  for  calling,  when  he  noticed  violet-ink  initials  over  the 
maker's  name. 


NIGHT  267 

The  doctor  was  Richard  or  Robert  Gaisford,  Eric  could 
not  remember  which;  certainly  not  "J."  As  he  began  to  be 
certain  that  "J.  G."  could  only  stand  for  John  Gaymer,  Eric 
told  himself  in  an  audible  whisper  that  he  had  to  be  very 
calm;  if  there  were  anything  in  the  old,  hysterical  premo- 
nition of  a  stand-up  fight  with  Gaymer,  it  would  take  place 
in  less  than  five  minutes. 

He  inspected  the  hat  carefully,  as  though  it  were  filled 
with  clues  and  secrets,  then  replaced  it  on  the  table,  with- 
drew his  note  and  walked  quietly  down  the  passage  to  Ivy's 
room.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  he  could  hear  perhaps  half 
Gaymer's  words,  when  he  dropped  his  voice,  and  everything, 
when  he  raised  it. 

"If  you  admit  it,  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  D'you 
like  the  prospect  of  being  married  for  fifty  years  to  one  man 
when  you're  in  love  with  another?  Oh,  it's  too  late  now, 
you've  admitted  it.  7  never  had  any  doubt.  You've  got  to 
get  out  of  it;  and  the  sooner  the  better.  .  .  It's  no  good 
denying  it,  Ivy;  we've  gone  through  all  that.  Look  me  in 
the  eyes.  .  .  Ivy,  do  as  I  tell  you — now.  You  have  to  do 
as  I  tell  you.  You've  never  loved  him  as  you  loved  me. 
Give  me  your  hand.  You  don't  shiver  when  you  touch  him, 
you  don't  belong  to  him.  .  .  Kiss  me,  Ivy.  I  said,  'Kiss 
me,  Ivy'."  There  was  a  laugh  of  contemptuous  affection. 
"There!.  .  .  So  valiant  we  were!  So  independent — at  a 
distance!  Kiss  me  again — on  my  lips.  .  .  Did  you  think 
I'd  let  you  go  so  easily?  Didn't  you  know  that,  if  I  stood 
at  the  back  of  the  church  when  you  were  being  married  and 
just  said  'Ivy,  come  here'.  .  .  ?  You  knew  that,  and  /  knew 
that." 

Eric  found  himself  sitting  on  a  chair  half-way  down  the 
passage.  Ivy  was  being  bewitched;  obviously  he  must  not 
allow  her  to  be  bullied  like  this.  .  .  Somebody  ought  to 
go  in  and  stop  it.  ... 

"I've  promised  Eric,"  she  was  saying  quietly. 


268  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"And  d'you  think  I  care  about  that?  He  can't  hold  you 
to  your  promise,  if  you  don't  want  to  marry  him.  You  love 
me,  Ivy.  Say  it  again !" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Say  it  again!,"  repeated  Gaymer. 

«T  >f 

Eric  could  not  hear  the  next  whispered  words,  but  they 
seemed  to  satisfy  Gaymer. 

"Say  'I  love  you  more  than  my  life',"  went  on  the  relent- 
less voice. 

"I  love  you  more  than  my  life." 

"Say — 'I  will  marry  you  and  no  one  else — ' " 

There  was  a  pause  and  a  sob. 

"Oh,  Johnnie,  don't  make  me !    It  isn't  fair  on  him !" 

"You  can't  be  fair  to  us  both !,"  Gaymer  cried. 

"He's  been  so  wonderfully  good  to  me.  I  should  have 
killed  myself,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him.  I  told  him  I'd 
marry  him,  I  said  he  was  the  only  person  in  the  world  I 
cared  for.  He's  done  everything  for  me!  We  should  have 
been  married  by  now,  but  he  wanted  to  give  me  time  to  be 
quite  sure — " 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  harsh,  triumphant  laugh. 

"Well  for  him  he  did!  And  you  are  quite  sure,  Ivy! 
I'm  not  going  through  all  this  again.  'I  will  marry  you  and 
no  one  else.'  Say  it." 

"I  will  marry  you  and  no  one  else.  .  .  Johnnie,  it'll  break 
his  heart!  I  can't  say  it!" 

"But  you  have.    Do  you  take  it  back?" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Eric  heard  a  low  but 
distinct  "No." 

The  passage  had  not  been  noticeably  hot  before,  but  the 
still  air  glared  like  the  burning  blast  from  an  open  furnace- 
door.  Eric  found  his  face  streaming  with  sweat;  and  the 
wooden  chair-back  was  slippery  in  his  grasp.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  murmur  of  confused  voices  everywhere — in  the  pas- 


NIGHT  269 

sage  on  either  side  of  him,  in  the  hall — preeminently  in  the 
hall,  where  one  murmur  dominated  the  other  murmurs,  and 
one  voice  dominated  all. 

It  was  Gais ford's  voice,  authoritative  and  ill-tempered, 
reprimanding  some  one. 

"Yes,  my  girl,  but  I  said  my  patient  was  not  to  be  left. 
You  go  off  duty  when  the  other  nurse  comes  on — and  not 
a  moment  before.  You've  left  the  patient  entirely  unat- 
tended? 'Seemed  all  right'  be  hanged!  Your  duty  is  to  do 
precisely  what  I  tell  you.  When  did  you  go  out?  Half  an 
hour !  I  don't  believe  it !  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  you 
haven't  heard  the  last  of  this." 

Eric  came  into  the  hall,  as  the  nurse  hurried  away  with  a 
scarlet  face  and  the  doctor  pulled  off  his  gloves  and  threw 
them  on  to  the  table,  still  muttering  angrily  to  himself. 

"Hullo!,"  he  exclaimed.    "I  thought  I'd  sent  you  away." 

"I  came  up  this  evening  to  consult  you,"  Eric  answered. 
His  voice  seemed  small  and  remote,  but  the  doctor  found 
nothing  amiss  with  it.  "I  was  feeling  rather  seedy  and  I 
thought  I'd  ask  you  to  overhaul  me.  If  you're  not  very 
busy,  we  might  get  it  over  to-night,  when  you've  finished 
with  Ivy.  I — I've  only  just  come  in,"  he  added  hastily.  "I 
went  to  your  place  first.  I  rather  fancy  that  in  the  nurse's 
absence  some  one  must  have  let  Gaymer  in.  I  think  he's 
with  Ivy  now,  though  I  haven't  been  in  to  see  yet." 

It  was  all  admirably  calm.  The  doctor  did  not  even  look 
at  him;  but  his  frown  deepened,  and  he  strode  down  the 
passage  with  threatening  footsteps.  Eric  was  not  conscious 
of  having  followed;  but  he  found  himself  on  the  threshold, 
as  the  door  was  thrown  open.  Ivy  and  Gaymer  had  been 
given  time  to  prepare  themselves ;  she  was  lying  back  with 
half  her  face  hidden  in  a  bouquet  of  lilies  of  the  valley, 
while  he  stood  with  his  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  as 
though  he  were  just  leaving.  Neither  shewed  surprise  or 


270  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

discomfiture  at  the  doctor's  volcanic  entry,  but  Ivy  could 
not  repress  a  cry  at  sight  of  Eric. 

"Now,  young  man,  you  can  take  yourself  off!,"  Gais- 
ford  snapped  at  Gaymer,  jerking  his  thumb  towards  the 
door. 

There  was  a  confusion  of  four  voices  speaking  at  once. 

"I  just  brought  some  flowers." 

"Eric!" 

"A  pretty  time  to  call — exciting  my  patient,  when  she 
ought  to  be  asleep !" 

"H-how  are  you,  Ivy?  I  came  up  for  one  night — only 
decided  at  tea-time.  .  ." 

Eric  .found  himself  face  to  face  with  Gaymer,  who 
nodded  quickly  as  he  walked  to  the  door.  He  was  as  much 
concerned  as  a  man  who  finds  that  he  has  left  himself  too 
little  time  to  dress  before  dinner — as  much  and  no  more. 
He  seemed  to  be  murmuring,  '"Evening,  Lane.  No  idea  it 
was  so  late.  'Couldn't  get  round  before.  Glad  to  see  she's 
so  much  better." 

Thus  far  for  the  audience;  he  retreated  in  good  order; 
and  in  another  moment  there  was  a  rattle  as  he  picked  up 
his  stick  from  the  hall  table.  Eric  found  his  jaw  moving; 
but  he  could  say  nothing,  he  did  not  even  know  what  he 
wanted  to  say.  It  was  no  use  staring  at  the  blank  door-way, 
he  could  not  turn  without  facing  Ivy.  .  .  The  authoritative 
voice  was  speaking  again,  apparently  addressing  him;  the 
resonant  words  defined  themselves  into  "If  you'll  run  away 
now,  I'll  come  and  have  a  word  with  you  on  my  way  out." 

Eric  went  to  his  bedroom  and  began  to  undress,  because 
it  gave  his  hands  occupation.  They  were  trembling  until 
he  could  hardly  undo  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat.  He 
looked  at  his  reflection  in  the  mirror  and  found  himself  a 
little  paler  than  usual ;  his  forehead  was  still  glistening  with 
the  insufferable  heat  of  the  passage,  but  there  should  have 
been  something  to  shew  that  he  had  been  blown  to  bits  and 


NIGHT  271 

was  held  together  by  shreds  of  tattered  skin.    Lines  that  he 
had  learned  as  a  boy  at  school.  .  . 

"So  tight  h-e  kept  his  lips  compressed, 
Scarce  any  blood  came  through. 

You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 
Was  all  but  shot  in  two.  .  ." 

And  why  should  he  murmur  them  to  the  tune  of  'Wes- 
ceslaus'?.  .  .  Was  he  delirious? 

Gaisford  had  seen  nothing  amiss.  If  it  were  but  pos- 
sible to  carry  off  the  interview  without  shewing  him  any- 
thing. .  .  After  all,  Ivy  and  Gaymer  had  not  betrayed 
themselves.  "I  will  marry  you  and  no  one  else."  With  lips 
not  yet  still  from  her  betrayal  of  him,  she  had  made  a  show 
of  composure.  And  Gaymer,  forsworn  and  a  walking  lie, 
explained  coolly  that  he  had  brought  some  flowers  and  could 
not  get  round  before.  They  would  probably  have  been  no 
less  composed  if  they  knew  that  he  was  in  the  passage,  listen- 
ing to  every  word.  Did  they  know?  Did  they  fancy  that 
he  had  come  in  with  the  doctor? 

Did   they   care? 

He  could  not  begin  to  think  about  it  all  until  his  brain 
was  fit  to  work.  Gaymer  had  lied,  Ivy  had  betrayed  him; 
there  was  room  here  for  anger,  jealousy.  .  .  He  had  lost 
her,  when  she  alone  had  come  to  make  life  worth  living, 
when  she  was  the  prize  and  symbol  of  his  victory  over 
fate ;  room  here  for  shaking  his  fists  at  Heaven  and  cursing 
God.  To  curse  God  and  die.  .  .  But  God  was  quite  equal 
to  keeping  him  alive.  Room  here  for  thinking  of  the  future 
and  going  stark  mad.  But  these  were  all  parts  of  a  whole  too 
big  for  him  to  envisage  yet ;  that  at  least  he  could  see.  .  .  . 

It  was  curious  that  force  of  habit  should  set  him  meth- 
odically folding  his  clothes  and  winding  his  watch.  .  .  Be- 
fore committing  suicide  a  man  nearly  always  shaved  him- 


272  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

self,  without  pausing  to  wonder  whether  it  was  not  rather 
wasted  labour.  .  .  . 

He  put  on  a  dressing-gown  and  lay  on  his  bed.  It  was 
curious  that  he  and  Ivy  should  be  destined  to  spend  this 
night  of  all  nights  within  twenty  yards  of  each  other. 
Curious  world.  .  .  Barbara  had  once  said  something  about 
the  fun  that  God  was  having  with  her.  .  .  Curious  how 
the  light  seemed  to  burn  through  the  back  of  the  eyes  into 
the  brain.  Curious  that  one  lacked  the  energy  to  stretch  a 
hand  to  the  switch.  .  .  . 

Eric  was  still  staring  at  the  ceiling  when  Gaisford  came 
in.  The  doctor's  moment  of  ill-temper  had  passed;  and 
this  was  a  pity,  because  he  would  be  less  preoccupied  and 
more  observant. 

"Well,  my  son,  and  what's  the  matter  with  you?,"  he 
asked. 

"I've  become  so  extraordinarily  limp."  The  voice  was 
slow  but  firm.  "The  longer  I  stayed  at  Lashmar,  the  limper 
I  got.  I  wasn't  trying  to  work,  but  I  couldn't  even  walk  a 
couple  of  miles.  It  occurred  to  me  that  a  tonic,  per- 
haps. .  ." 

The  doctor  grunted  and  fitted  the  ends  of  a  stethoscope 
into  his  ears.  The  ritual  which  followed  was  very  familiar 
to  Eric;  chest  and  back,  long  breath,  ordinary  breathing, 
holding  the  breath,  tapping.  .  .  The  stethoscope  darted  to 
and  fro,  as  though  it  were  playing  a  game  with  some  elusive 
noise  inside  him;  it  finished  with  the  heart  and  began  chas- 
ing the  lungs  into  improbable  corners  under  the  collar-bone 
and  shoulder-blades,  dodging  back  to  the  heart  when  it  was 
least  expected. 

"Lie  down.    A  deep  breath,"  said  Gaisford. 

This  lying-down  portended  something  serious;  or  per- 
haps the  doctor  was  not  yet  sure.  They  were  always  so 
uncommunicative;  you  might  have  a  tolerably  wide  experi- 


NIGHT  273 

ence  of  these  examinations  and  yet  not  know  what  they 
were  trying  to  find. 

"Anything  the  matter?,"  Eric  asked,  as  the  stethoscope 
was  detached  and  pocketed. 

"You've  not  much  flesh  on  you,"  said  the  doctor,  feeling 
his  ribs.  "Are  you  eating  properly?" 

"The  usual  amount.  But  you  know  I  never  did  run  to 
fat." 

"Do  you  perspire  much?" 

"Like  a  pig.  I  gave  my  poor  mother  quite  a  shock  when 
she  came  in  one  morning  and  found  me  as  if  I'd  just  come 
out  of  the  mill-stream.  I  save  pounds  on  Turkish  baths." 

Gaisford  nodded  and  put  a  number  of  questions  which 
Eric  seemed  to  answer  adequately.  They  did  not  appear 
to  lead  anywhere,  but  some  of  them  were  new  to  his  ex- 
perience. At  the  end,  the  stethoscope  was  produced  again. 

"Anything  the  matter  ?,"  Eric  repeated,  for  the  doctor  was 
frowning.  The  examination,  too,  was  unusually  long. 

"Well,  yes.  It's  what  I've  feared  ever  since  I've  known 
you.  We've  caught  it  in  time,  but  you'll  have  to  be  rather 
careful.  There  are  four  of  you,  aren't  there?  What  are 
your  brothers  and  sisters  like?  You  can  put  on  that  dress- 
ing-gown ;  I  don't  want  you  to  catch  cold." 

Eric  weighed  the  question  as  he  slipped  his  arms  into  the 
sleeves.  God  was  enjoying  himself.  .  .  . 

"Let's  come  back  to  that,"  he  suggested.  "What  is  it? 
Heart?" 

"That's  been  a  bit  tired  for  years." 

"Lungs,  then?.  .  .  I  see.  Well,  I'm  not  a  child,  Gaisford. 
How  long  do  you  give  me?  Six  months?  A  year?" 

The  doctor  changed  his  spectacles  and  tipped  Eric's 
clothes  from  an  arm-chair.  He  could  be  exasperatingly  slow 
when  he  liked ;  and  he  always  liked  to  be  slow,  when  his 
patients  shewed  signs  of  becoming  unnerved. 

"Forty,  if  you  do  what  I  tell  you,"  he  announced  at 


274  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

lengtti.  "If  you  don't,  you'll  get  rapidly  worse.  By  the 
way,  it's  chiefly  in  books  that  a  doctor  says  you've  three 
weeks  and  two  days  to  live;  science  isn't  quite  so  exact  as 
that,  and  doctors  aren't  such  damned  fools.  .  .  No !  I'll  tell 
you.  This  might  have  come  at  any  time,  because  you've 
been  on  the  delicate  side  ever  since  I've  known  you.  Now 
you're  a  little  bit  touched.  It's  a  bore,  but  it's  nothing  to  be 
frightened  about.  I  shan't  let  you  live  in  this  country,  of 
course,  and  I  shall  cut  down  your  work;  but  that  doesn't 
matter,  because  you're  indecently  rich  for  your  age.  And 
I  can  give  you  a  choice  of  places  to  live  in — California, 
South  Africa,  the  Riviera — " 

"This  is  in  confidence,  of  course,"  Eric  interrupted. 
"You're  not  telling  my  people — or  Ivy.  .  .  or  any  one  ?" 

"No.  But  I'll  tell  you  that,  if  you  try  to  marry  that  child 
in  your  present  state,  you'll  deserve  to  be  pulled  limb  from 
Umb." 

"I  don't  propose  to." 

"If  you'll  wait  a  couple  of  years.  .  ." 

Eric  was  troubled  to  keep  his  brain,  now  suddenly  alert, 
back  to  the  doctor's  deliberate  pace.  The  immediate  future 
was  clear.  .  .  . 

"How  soon  am  I  to  start?,"  he  asked. 

"Get  out  of  London  as  soon  as  possible." 

"And — about  Ivy.  When  will  she  be  well  enough  to  be 
told?" 

"I  should  tell  her  at  once — to-morrow.  She'll  see  some- 
thing's up ;  she  wanted  to  know  to-night  why  you'd  suddenly 
come  back  without  warning.  .  .  I  find  that  as  a  rule  it's 
best  to  tell  people  the  truth,  however  much  of  a  shock  it  may 
be.  We're  all  of  us  equal  to  a  certain  number  of  shocks; 
and  it  seldom  becomes  less  of  a  shock  by  postponing  it  and 
wrapping  it  in  lies." 

"I'll  tell  her  to-morrow,"  said  Eric.  "Do  you  want  to  do 
anything  more  with  me?" 


NIGHT  275 

"I'm  afraid  there's  no  doubt  of  it." 

"Then  I  may  as  well  turn  in." 

Eric  threw  off  the  dressing-gown  and  put  on  his  pyjamas. 
The  doctor,  he  knew,  was  watching  him,  but  he  was  suc- 
cessfully deliberate  and  composed.  They  shook  hands  and 
said  good-night  without  emotion  or  straining  after  heroics. 
There  was  a  half-heard  phrase  about  "having  anothe_r  word 
with"  him  in  the  morning.  Eric  lay  for  a  few  moments  in 
darkness,  waiting  to  hear  the  doctor's  car  drive  away ;  there 
was  no  sound,  however,  and  he  was  asleep  before  he  had 
done  speculating  whether  Gaisford  had  come  on  foot  or 
in  a  car.  .  .  a 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 
JOURNEY'S  END 

"Your  distresses  in  your  journey  .  .  .  are  proper  seasonings  for 
the  greater  fatigues  and  distresses,  which  you  must  expect  in  your 
travels;  and,  if  one  had  a  mind  to  moralize,  one  might  call  them 
the  samples  of  the  accidents,  rubs,  and  difficulties,  which  everyone 
meets  with  in  his  journey  through  life.  In  this  journey,  the  under- 
standing is  the  voiture  that  must  carry  you  through ;  and  in  propor- 
tion as  that  is  stronger  or  weaker,  more  or  less  in  repair,  your  journey 
will  be  better  or  worse ;  though,  at  best  you  will  now  and  then  find 
some  bad  roads  and  some  bad  inns.  .  .  . 

"My  long  and  frequent  letters  which  I  send  you,  in  great  doubt 
of  their  success,  put  me  in  mind  of  certain  papers  which  you  have 
very  lately,  and  I  formerly,  sent  up  to  kites,  along  the  string,  which 
we  call  messengers ;  some  of  them  the  wind  used  to  blow  away, 
others  were  torn  by  the  string,  and  but  few  of  them  got  up  and  stuck 
to  the  kite.  ..." 

LORD  CHESTERFIELD  TO  HIS  SON. 

"Miss  MAITLAND  asked  me  to  say  she  would  like  to  see  you 
as  soon  as  you  are  ready." 

Eric  thanked  the  nurse  and  continued  dressing.  The 
night  of  unresisting,  helpless  exhaustion  had  been  tranquil 
as  death;  he  wondered  whether  Ivy  had  slept.  .  .  Or  had 
she  been  rehearsing  the  speech  in  which  she  would  tell  him 
that  she  could  not  marry  him?  Or  would  she  say  nothing, 
waiting  for  him  to  tell  her  that  he  had  been  in  the  passage 
outside  her  room  while  she  threw  him  aside  for  Gay- 
mer?.  .  .  It  was  significant  that  she  asked  to  see  him.  An 
easy  conscience  must  have  told  her  that  he  would  have  come 
as  soon  as  he  was  dressed.  .  .  . 

He  went  in  to  find  her  tired  and  nervously  excited,  but 
she  achieved  an  unembarrassed  smile  of  welcome  and  asked 
how  he  was. 

276 


JOURNEY'S  END  277 

"I'll  return  the  c-compliment,"  he  said,  wondering  why  he 
stammered.  "How  are  you,  Ivy?  You're  the  invalid." 

"Oh,  I'm  much  better.  I  shall  be  able  to  come  down  to 
Lashmar  at  the  end  of  next  week." 

Eric  turned  away  and  looked  for  a  chair.  At  times  of 
great  mental  exhaustion  it  was  hard  to  tell  whether  a  thing 
had  happened  or  whether  he  had  dreamed  it.  Ivy  was  talk- 
ing as  though  she  had  never  perjured  herself  for  Gaymer, 
as  though  she  had  never  seen  him  again — an  absurd,  intoxi- 
cating child  with  short  black  curls  and  thin  white  arms, 
the  immature  bud  of  a  woman.  .  .  Yet  there  was  a  table 
by  the  bed  within  reach  of  her  hand;  on  the  table  stood  a 
black  Wedgwood  bowl;  in  the  bowl  a  nodding  mass  of 
lilies.  Once  or  twice  before,  when  she  was  living  with  Lady 
Maitland  and  dining  alone  with  Gaymer,  she  had  confessed 
to  inventing  fellow-guests  to  keep  her  in  countenance  and  to 
placate  her  aunt;  she  had  regarded  the  lie  as  amusing  and 
clever,  certainly  venial ;  Eric  hoped  that  she  was  not  going  to 
lie  now.  Perhaps  he  had  imagined  that  nightmare  moment 
in  the  passage,  perhaps  the  sight  of  her  frank  grey  eyes 
kept  his  habit  of  love  unbroken;  undoubtedly  he  loved  her 
still,  loved  her  so  desperately  that  he  could  not  bear  to  see 
her  made  vile  with  a  lie.  .  .  But  the  lilies  at  least  were  not 
imaginary.  .  .  Her  easy  reference  to  Lashmar  shewed  that 
she  intended  to  confess  nothing;  she  would  leave  him  to  find 
out.  One  day  he  would  receive  a  letter  to  say  that  she  had 
run  off  with  Gaymer ;  in  the  meantime  she  played  her  double 
part  with  outward  unconcern,  as  though  she  were  already 
married  and  had  a  secret  lover.  .  .  . 

"At  the  end  of  next  week,"  he  repeated. 

It  was  easier  to  echo  her  words  than  to  break  new  ground. 

"Are  you  going  back  at  once?  I  hope  you're  going  to 
stay  here,"  she  said,  beckoning  him  to  a  chair. 

"I  promised  my  mother  to  go  back  to-day." 


278  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"Can't  you  telephone?  I  do  so  want  you  to  stay.  .  . 
Eric,  does  your  mother  know?  I've  been  so  afraid  she 
might  disapprove  of  me.  Have  you  told  her?" 

He  shivered  unconsciously;  the  appealing  pose  of  fidelity 
was  cynical  enough,  without  her  becoming  inartistic  by 
overdoing  it. 

"I  gave  her  a  very  fair  idea  of  what  was  in  the  wind," 
he  said.  "She's  very  fond  of  you,  Ivy.  There'd  be  no  dif- 
ficulty in  that  quarter." 

"You  haven't  seen  father  yet?    When  are  you  going  to?" 

For  a  moment  Eric  was  so  much  disgusted  to  find  him- 
self participating  in  this  game  of  make-believe  that  he  did 
not  realize  she  was  asking  him  a  question  and  waiting  for 
an  answer. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  at  length.  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  shall  see  him.  There  are  certain  rather  consider- 
able difficulties.  .  .  Ivy,  d'you  want  me  to  go  to  him?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  was  conscious  that  his  tone  had  hardened ; 
there  was  a  challenge  and  a  warning  in  it.  He  waited  to  see 
whether  she  would  go  on  lying;  the  hint  of  menace  must 
shew  her  that  she  was  underestimating  his  knowledge. 

A  slight  frown,  a  slighter  shrug  were  her  only  signs  of 
emotion. 

"I  never  did  want  you  to  go,"  she  answered.  "My  father 
is  nothing  in  my  life  now.  I  should  actually  have  asked  you 
not  to  if  you  hadn't  frightened  me  by  saying  that  he  might 
make  trouble  because  I  wasn't  of  age." 

Eric  nodded  and  prepared  a  question  which  would  leave 
no  room  for  evasion. 

"You've  thought  it  over  carefully,  I  hope?,"  he  said. 
"You  still  want  to  marry  me?" 

"Of  course." 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him,  but  he  pretended  not  to 
see  them.  The  last  man  to  kiss  her  was  Gaymer ;  where  he 
kissed,  a  fume  of  liquor  and  lasciviousness  remained.  .  .  . 


JOURNEY'S  END  279 

"You  want  to  marry  me  after  seeing — him?  You've 
satisfied  him  that  it's  all  over?" 

Her  frown  deepened,  but  there  was  no  indication  of  em- 
barrassment. 

"He  still  claims  that  we're  engaged — ,"  she  began. 

''Does  he  still  think  he's  going  to  marry  you?" 

"Yes." 

"You've  told  him  you. won't?" 

He  regretted  the  question  as  soon  as  it  was  uttered. 
However  dishonourably  Ivy  had  behaved,  there  was  no  pleas- 
ure in  driving  her  inch  by  inch  into  a  trap;  in  a  world  of 
liars  there  was  never  much  satisfaction  in  convicting  any  one 
of  a  lie. 

"Yes,  I  told  him  that,"  she  answered.  "I  also  told  him  I 
would.  .  .  You  won't  understand  that,  I  expect,  but  I 
couldn't  help  myself.  That's  why  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
away  and  leave  me,  Eric;  that's  why,  a  month  ago,  I  didn't 
want  to  wait.  I  daresay  you  despise  me,  but  I  always  feel 
he  can  make  me  do  whatever  he  wants.  I  can't  tell  you  why. 
That  night.  .  .  when  we  came  out  of  a  theatre,  he  said 
'Are  you  going  home,  or  are  you  coming  home  with  me?' 
I'd  never  been  home  with  him  so  late,  I  knew  what  would 
happen,  I  didn't  want  it  to  happen.  I  was  horribly  fright- 
ened and  I  hoped,  when  he  saw  I  was  frightened,  that  he 
would  spare  me.  I  should  have  thought  any  man  would.  .  . 
I  couldn't  help  myself;  and  that's  why  I've  never  been  as 
much  ashamed  as  I  ought  to  be.  Even  when  I  thought  he'd 
got  tired  of  me,  when  I  hated  him  and  could  have  murdered 
him,  I  still  felt  that  he  might  come  back  and  I  should  have 
to  obey  him.  .  .  I  don't  want  to  be  left  alone,  Eric.  When 
we're  married,  it  will  be  all  right ;  I  shall  have  you  to  pro- 
tect me.  I've  been  ill — and,  before  that,  I  was  desperately 
miserable ;  perhaps  I  haven't  really  been  accountable  for  my 
actions.  But,  if  he'd  picked  me  up  in  his  arms  last  night 


28o  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

and  carried  me  off,  I  couldn't  have  resisted.  Until  we're 
married,  you  mustn't  leave  me — " 

"And,  when  we're  married,  will  it  be  easier  to  resist  him  ?" 

"He'll  leave  me  alone.  He  may  go  abroad.  .  .  Do  you 
understand?  Or  do  you  just  despise  me?" 

She  smiled  wistfully  and  held  out  her  hands  to  him  again. 
Though  he  had  not  kissed  her  on  coming  into  the  room,  she 
had  not  commented  on  the  omission ;  perhaps  she  had  not 
noticed  it.  Their  relationship  had  been  wholly  passionless. 
When  he  brought  her  back  from  Maidenhead  and  saw  her 
for  the  first  time  in  ecstasy,  the  glory  in  her  eyes  was  spirit- 
ual; it  was  gratitude,  admiration,  love  and  a  great  amaze- 
ment; if  she  then  begged  him  to  kiss  her,  it  was  because  a 
kiss  was  her  readiest  symbol  of  love.  For  Gaymer  she  had 
once  felt  passion ;  when  he  ordered  her  to  kiss  him,  knowing 
the  degree  and  source  of  his  power,  she  obeyed.  That  would 
pass  in  a  few  months ;  the  strength  of  sex  was  only  equalled 
by  its  transience ;  and  they  would  find  nothing  to  put  in  its 
place.  While  it  was  there,  it  was  all-powerful ;  she  could 
only  escape  it  by  running  away,  by  surrounding  herself  with 
a  bodyguard,  by  reminding  the  flesh  that  she  owned  claims 
of  the  spirit  also.  In  so  far  as  Eric  could  analyse  her  mind, 
she  yearned  to  be  with  Gaymer ;  and  she  resisted  the  yearn- 
ing, because  she  owed  a  spiritual  debt  to  some  one  else.  She 
would  be  happier  with  Gaymer — for  a  time;  no  doubt  she 
fancied  that  she  would  always  be  happier.  But  she  was 
prepared  to  sacrifice  that  for  honour,  for  gratitude.  .  .  . 

"I'm  trying  to  understand,"  he  answered.  "/  once 
thought  that  I  was  utterly  helpless  in  one  woman's  hands. 
There  was  nothing  I  wouldn't  do.  .  .  But  I  found  it  was  a 
thing  one  could  overcome.  If  I  went  up  in  blue  smoke  here 
and  now,  you'd  marry  Gaymer?  You  remember  there  was 
a  time  when  you  wouldn't  look  at  him." 

"I  didn't  know  everything  then." 

"And,  if  I  don't  go  up  in  blue  smoke  and  if  he  got  enough 


JOURNEY'S  END  281 

money,  if  we  stood  side  by  side  before  you,  and  you  had  a 
perfectly  free  choice""5 

Ivy  laughed  with  a  dove's  coo  of  devotion : 

"My  darling,  I  should  choose  you !" 

"And  if  Gaymer  tried  to  entice  you  away?" 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  me  go !" 

Eric  shook  his  head  sadly : 

"Aren't  you  strong  enough  to  stand  by  yourself  with- 
out wanting  a  man  always  to  dominate  you?" 

The  conversation  was  tiring  her,  and  her  voice  became 
faintly  petulant : 

"When  you're  lying  in  bed  like  this,  all  your  will-power 
goes.  And  I  couldn't  sleep  last  night.  I  kept  thinking  of 
Johnnie,  I  was  frightened.  You  oughtn't  to  have  left  me, 
Eric.  Everything  would  have  been  all  right,  if  you'd 
stayed  here." 

"Gaisford  thought  I  wanted  a  change,"  he  reminded  her. 
"And  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  again.  He  wants 
me  to  go  abroad." 

"Oh,  Eric,  why?    Are  you  ill?" 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  concern ;  he  wondered  how  much 
came  from  sympathy  with  him  and  how  much  from  fear  for 
herself. 

"Apparently  I  am.  He  wants  to  rest  me  and  fatten  me 
up." 

"But  how  long  will  you  be  away?" 

"A  couple  of  years,  I  should  think." 

Ivy  drew  herself  upright  in  bed  and  stared  at  him,  with 
parted  lips: 

"Eric,  you  must  explain!" 

"There's  nothing  much  to  explain.  It's  out  of  the  question 
for  me  to  marry  at  present.  .  ."  He  hesitated  and  looked 
away.  "It's  not  fair  to  ask  you  to  wait  two  years." 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer.    Then  she  cried: 

"Of  course  I'll  wait !     You  know  that !" 


282  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

It  was  easier  to  keep  his  eyes  on  the  ground  than  to  meet 
hers.  The  valiant  words  were  inevitable — at  such  a  time  and 
in  such  an  atmosphere;  the  moment's  hesitation  was  not. 
And  that,  more  than  anything  that  she  had  said  or  hinted, 
cleared  his  mind  of  doubt. 

"Well,  we  won't  talk  about  it  any  more  at  present,"  he 
suggested.  "Gaisford's  going  to  examine  me  again,  and  then 
we  shall  know  rather  better  where  we  are.  Don't  worry, 
Ivy.  I've  no  intention  of  dying  yet  awhile.  I  only  heard 
about  it  last  night,  so  I  haven't  had  time  to  think  much  about 
the  future." 

In  the  afternoon  Eric  returned  to  Wimpole  Street  for  the 
further  examination.  The  second  report  was  fuller,  but  not 
materially  different :  one  lung  was  affected,  and  with  reason- 
able care  he  would  be  cured  in  a  year  or  eighteen  months. 
He  again  begged  the  doctor  to  say  nothing  at  present  to  his 
parents  or  Ivy. 

"There's  a  lot  to  take  into  consideration,"  he  explained 
vaguely. 

"I'm  sorry  about  this  business,  Eric,"  said  Gaisford. 
"But  I'm  telling  you  the  truth.  If  you'll  be  patient — " 

"Everything  will  come  right.  I  see.  .  .  D'you  think 
your  man  would  like  to  send  a  message  to  Lashmar  to  say  I 
shan't  be  down  to-night  ?" 

He  walked  into  Oxford  Street  and  through  Hyde  Park 
to  Piccadilly.  Once  before,  after  bidding  Barbara  good-bye, 
he  had  bade  good-bye  to  London,  wandering  from  his  flat  to 
the  theatre,  from  the  theatre  to,  his  club,  almost  pinching  him- 
self in  the  effort  to  remember  that  he  was  seeing  them  all 
for  the  last  time.  One  could  never  reproduce  an  emotion  in 
its  first  breathless  perfection ;  though  he  went  through  the 
same  emotions,  the  earlier  shock  had  numbed  him  pro- 
tectively against  any  that  might  come  later.  And,  as  it 
proved,  it  was  not  the  last  time.  In  another  two  years  he 
might  return  to  find  Ivy  married  to  Gaymer,  as  he  had  found 


JOURNEY'S  END  283 

Barbara  married  to  George  Oakleigh ;  he  would  be  two  years 
older,  twenty  years  more  disillusionized,  with  a  bitter  heart 
for  women  and  a  dread  of  the  blank  emptiness  before  him. 

Ivy  was  not  to  blame  for  meeting  a  force  too  strong  for 
her ;  she  was  ready  to  risk  everything,  even  what  she  fancied 
to  be  her  own  happiness,  for  loyalty  and  the  honourable  ob- 
servance of  her  promise.  If  he  felt  sore,  it  was  because  he 
had  come  to  love  her ;  she  had  made  him  forget  Barbara  and 
had  given  him  the  hope  of  a  new  life.  But  throughout,  from 
the  first  night  when  he  discussed  her  with  Gaisford,  he  had 
made  her  his  spiritual  anaesthetic;  while  there  was  an  op- 
portunity of  offering  her  himself,  his  money  and  reputation, 
his  devotion  and  care,  he  had  looked  with  the  eyes  of  a 
fanatic  on  this  single  act  of  sacrifice  which  was  to  give  value 
and  meaning  to  his  life.  In  trying  to  face  the  future,  it  was 
the  meaninglessness  of  life  that  appalled  him.  .  .  . 

He  had  been  trying,  ever  since  their  talk  in  the  morning, 
to  banish  himself  in  imagination  to  California  and  to  con- 
sider what  was  best  for  her.  Gaymer  would  ruin  her  life ;  he 
would  be  unfaithful  after  six  months  and  brutal  after  a  year. 
And  she  knew  it.  Should  she  be  saved  from  that  ?  Was  it 
ever  worth  trying  to  save  man  or  woman  from  the  woman  or 
man  that  they  desired?  Yet  it  was  a  poor  proof  of  love  to 
stand  aside  and  let  her  go  to  certain  misery.  If  he  mounted 
guard  over  her,  he  could  still  keep  her  from  Gaymer.  .  .  . 

And  from  her  phantom  of  happiness. 

He  turned  into  the  Green  Park  and  walked  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees  towards  Lancaster  House.  A  woman  bowed  to 
him ;  he  returned  the  bow  without  seeing  who  she  was,  but 
there  was  a  scrape  of  gravel  under  her  heel  as  she  stopped, 
and  he  heard  his  name  called. 

"I  thought  it  was  you,  but  you  had  your  chin  so  much  on 
your  chest.  .  .  Thinking  out  a  new  play?" 

"Mrs.  O'Rane?    I  hope  you  didn't  think  I  was  trying  to 


284  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

cut  you!  No,  I  hardly  know  what  I  was  thinking  about. 
How's  your  husband?" 

"If  you  go  on  for  about  a  hundred  yards,  you'll  find  him. 
I  have  to  rush  off  to  a  committee.  Good-bye!" 

He  shaded  his  eyes  and  looked  down  the  path-way  until 
he  saw  a  Saint  Bernard  asleep  with  his  head  on  his  paws  and 
the  paws  pressed  in  gentle  protection  against  the  feet  of  his 
master.  Eric  walked  on  and  greeted  O'Rane. 

"That's — wait  a  bit!  that's  Eric  Lane's  voice.  Am  I 
right?" 

"First  shot.    You're  marvellous,  Raney." 

"It's  patience,  you  know.  And  I've  been  thinking  about 
you  a  lot  lately.  How's  the  patient?  Lady  John  Carstairs 
told  me  of  your  troubles.  I  wanted  you  to  come  and  have 
a  shake-down  with  us,  but  she  said  you  preferred  to  stay 
where  you  were.  I  hear  the  operation  went  off  all  right." 

"Oh,  yes.     She's  out  of  danger,  I'm  glad  to  say." 

"So  Gaymer  told  me.  It  all  happened  within  a  few  hours 
of  our  coming  up  from  Croxton,  apparently." 

"Yes." 

Eric  wondered  when  and  why  O'Rane  had  been  talking  to 
Gaymer,  but  his  speculation  was  cut  short  by  a  question : 

"By  the  way,  is  it  true.  .  .?  I  heard  an  interesting  piece 
of  news  about  you." 

"Oh?" 

"I  heard  you  were  engaged." 

"Now  where  did  you  hear  that?" 

Eric's  laugh  seemed  to  ring  shrilly,  but  O'Rane  did  not 
notice  it. 

"Tell  me  first  if  it's  true,"  he  said.  "I'm  the  soul  of 
discretion." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  smiling  and  eager  to  congratulate. 
Eric  hesitated  and  again  laughed  nervously. 

"That  ought  to  be  an  easy  enough  question  for  me  to 
answer,"  he  said,  "but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  can't." 


JOURNEY'S  END  285 

The  neglected  hand  reached  out  and  felt  for  Eric's  arm. 

"I  nearly  came  round  to  see  you,"  said  O'Rane  gently, 
"but  I  thought  you'd  wonder  what  business  it  was  of  mine. 
You  remember  our  talk  on  board  the  Lithuania.  .  .  I  know 
a  good  deal  about  you,  and  we're  very  old  friends.  .  .  So  I 
was  glad,  more  than  glad,  when  I  heard  you  were  actually 
engaged.  Then  I  heard — 

His  fingers  slacked  their  grip  on  Eric's  arm ;  and  his  voice 
died  away. 

"That  I  wasn't,"  Eric  suggested. 

"Well,  no.  I  heai  d — at  least,  I  gathered  that  it  wouldn't 
be  all  plain  sailing.  I  gathered  it  from  Gaymer  himself. 
D'you  remember  at  Croxton  that  I  said  I  thought  I  should 
have  to  take  him  in  hand?  He  was  drinking  too  much,  he 
wanted  pulling  up.  He's  been  living  in  my  pocket  the  last 
day  or  two.  I  can  make  something  of  him.  But  I'm  afraid 
his  interests  cuts  across  yours." 

"Would  it  bore  you  to  hear  the  whole  story?,"  Eric 
asked. 

There  was  a  welcoming  nod  of  encouragement.  Eric 
tried  to  speak  dispassionately,  though  he  knew  that  he  was 
appealing  for  sympathy  and  help ;  and  the  appeal  grew 
stronger  as  he  saw  his  companion's  expression  becoming 
more  grave. 

"Confidence  for  confidence,"  said  O'Rane,  when  he  had 
done.  "Quite  soon  after  I  married,  there  came  a  time  when 
it  seemed  possible  that  Sonia  and  I  had  made  a  mistake,  a 
time  when  I  felt  that,  if  I  wanted  her  to  be  happy,  I  should 
have  to  say,  'Think  this  over  carefully ;  you've  only  one  life 
and,  if  you  believe  you'll  make  more  of  a  success  of  it  with 
another  man,  you  know  I'll  not  stop  you'  ...  I  said  that,. 
Eric,  and  I've  always  felt  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  I 
won't  pretend  it  was  easy,  but  the  right  thing  seldom  is. 
As  it  happens,  everything's  turned  out  well.  .  .  I  believe 
it's  a  question  that  a  great  many  men  ought  to  put  to  their 


286  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

wives,  instead  of  exercising  harem-rights  over  a  human 
creature,  made  in  God's  image,  that  they've  bought  or  at- 
tached to  themselves.  Do  you  want  to  love  a  woman  or  to 
enjoy  a  slave?  ...  I  tell  you  this,  because  you  must  give 
that  girl  the  opportunity  of  slipping  out  of  your  grasp — " 

He  stopped  at  the  touch  of  a  hand  laid  deprecatingly  on 
his  knee. 

"I  can't  keep  her,  if  she  wants  to  go,"  said  Eric. 

"Indeed  you  can.  Use  your  imagination,  man!  After 
all  you've  done  for  her,  with  the  knowledge  that  you're  ill — 
Put  it  on  the  lowest  ground;  she  wouldn't  dare  to  have  it 
said  of  her  that  she'd  thrown  over  a  man  with  consumption 
because  she  couldn't  wait  two  years  for  him  to  get  well. 
Probably  you  agree  with  me  that  a  man  who  is  a  man  doesn't 
make  capital  out  of  his  physical  infirmities.  You  must  per- 
suade her  that  she's  under  no  obligation  to  you;  and,  if  the 
decision  goes  against  you,  you  must  accept  it  with  a  good 
grace.  You  behaved  well  in  coming  to  her  rescue ;  you  may 
have  an  opportunity  of  behaving  even  better  in  giving  up  all 
claim  on  her." 

Eric  sat  for  some  moments  digging  at  the  gravel  with  his 
stick.  Then  he  touched  O'Rane's  arm  and  stood  up. 

"Let's  move  on,"  he  suggested.  "It's — it's  hot  here.  .  . 
Raney,  I'm  not  going  to  give  her  up.  I  don't  see  why  I 
should." 

"I  hope  you  won't  have  to." 

"No  one  can  compel  me,  if  she  says  she'll  wait." 

"No  one  would  need  to  compel  you.  Dear  man,  your  de- 
votion to  her  is  a  very  beautiful  thing,  it's  a  thing  you've 
better  reason  to  be  proud  of  than  anything  you've  ever  done. 
You  wouldn't  degrade  a  devotion  like  that  by  keeping  her 
against  her  will." 

Eric  said  nothing  for  several  moments,  but  he  laughed  to 
himself,  and  O'Rane  gripped  his  arm  as  though  the  sneer  in 
the  laugh  stung  him. 


JOURNEY'S  END  287 

"And  I  wonder  what  you  think  would  be  left  for  me,  if  I 
did  give  her  up !"  he  resumed.  "It's  no  good  trying  to  make 
me  live  in  too  rarified  air.  All  this  business  about  'the  right 
thing' — I'm  not  cut  out  for  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  or  for  Sidney 
Carton;  a  good  conscience,  a  glow  of  magnanimity — it  does 
me  no  sort  of  good,  Raney.  I  know  what  I  want,  I  know 
how  badly  I  want  it.  I  can  imagine  pretty  clearly  what  the 
next  two  years  are  going  to  be  like — vegetating  on  a  ver- 
andah in  Arizona.  She's  all  I  have  left.  .  .  But  if  there's 
nothing  to  come  back  to.  .  .  I'm  the  one  that  has  to  go 
through  this  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what's  left." 

O'Rane  laughed  and  linked  arms  with  him. 

"I'll  change  lungs,  if  you'll  change  eyes,"  he  murmured. 

"I'm  sorry !  My  outlook's  a  bit  jaundiced.  I  expected  too 
much  of  life,  I'd  had  a  pretty  fair  hammering  in  one  way  or 
another  and  I  thought  it  was  going  to  change,  to  end." 

O'Rane  stopped  short  and  sighed  with  whimsical  regret. 

"Like  your  novels  and  plays,"  he  suggested.  "Life  differs 
from  romance  in  that  there  are  no  happy  endings.  And,, 
when  you've  learned  that  lesson,  you  must  learn  that  life 
has  no  endings  of  any  kind  short  of  death.  We  try  to  divide 
our  lives  into  dramatic  phases,  but  you  know  that  there's  no 
finality  about  your  first  disappointment  in  love;  it  modifies 
the  texture  of  your  spirit  and  prepares  you  for  something 
else  just  when  the  dramatist  scrawls  his  'Curtain'  and  the 
novelist  writes  'The  End.'  Perhaps  it  prepares  you  for 
another  and  a  different  love,  perhaps  for  marriage :  no  one 
but  a  fool  would  stop  his  play  or  novel  with  the  clash  of 
wedding-bells.  It's  not  the  end  of  anything  except  one  stage 
of  an  endless  development ;  it's  not  the  beginning  of  anything 
except  the  next  stage  of  development.  These  dramatic  and 
literary  forms  destroy  our  sense  of  continuity.  Hundreds  of 
generations  have  gone  to  the  preparation  of  your  personality ; 
you  will  enrich  it  in  a  thousand  ways  and  hand  it  on  by  blood 
or  teaching  or  example  to  thousands  of  generations  unborn. 


288  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

You  ask  what  is  left.  .  .  I  should  answer :  your  personality, 
your  ego.  You  have  that  left  to  build  up,  fortify,  perfect. 
I  don't  say  that  the  next  two  years  will  be  particularly  happy, 
but  you  can  come  out  of  them  a  deeper,  broader,  bigger 
man.  .  .  You'll  give  this  girl  her  chance?" 

Eric  walked  on  without  answering.  They  left  the  Park 
and  passed  along  Cleveland  Row  to  St.  James'  Street.  The 
wind  was  blowing  from  the  river,  and  they  paused  to  hear 
Big  Ben  strike. 

"Seven  o'clock.  I'd  no  idea  we'd  been  talking  so  long," 
said  O'Rane.  "My  wife's  dining  out  and  going  to  the  bal- 
let. I  suppose  you  wouldn't  care  to  take  pot-luck  with  me  ?" 

"I  should  love  it,  when  I've  been  home.  Ivy '11  be  wonder- 
ing what's  happened  to  me.  Raney,  what  would  you  do  in 
my  place,  if  you  felt  certain  that,  by  giving  a  woman  up, 
you'd  be  sentencing  her  to  utter  misery  ?" 

"To  begin  with,  no  one  can  ever  be  certain  of  that." 

"Gaymer's  a  brute  and  a  cad  and  a  drunkard,"  said  Eric 
hotly. 

"He's  given  up  drinking  for  good.  As  for  the  rest,  when 
you  see  so  many  estimable  men  turning  into  brutes  and  cads 
on  marriage,  it's  not  unreasonable  to  hope  that  a  brute  and 
cad  may  be  converted  by  marriage  into  something  better. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Gaymer's  neither.  I  saw  him  when,  to 
use  his  own  phrase,  he  thought  you'd  jumped  his  claim;  it 
was  the  time  when  the  girl's  life  was  in  danger.  Gaymer's 
very  fond  of  her,  too,  though  he's  English  enough  to  hide  it 
from  everybody  but  a  man  who  has  ears  even  if  he's  no 
eyes.  .  .  Gaymer's  no  fool.  He  knows  that  all  his  nervous 
organism  has  gone  to  pieces  in  the  war,  he  recognizes  that 
he's  left  the  rails  and  that,  if  he  doesn't  pull  up,  he'll  go  down- 
hill with  a  run.  He  wants  some  one  to  keep  him  steady ;  and 
this  girl — the  only  living  creature  in  the  world  that  he  cares 
for — is  the  only  one  who  can  do  it.  He's  fighting  for  her, 
because  she's  his  one  anchor.  He  can't  afford  to  lose  her." 


JOURNEY'S  END  289 

"I  can't  afford  to  lose  her." 

"Perhaps  you  mayn't.  I  only  want  her  to  have  a  free 
choice." 

"Freedom  to  marry  a  blackguard?  He  is  a  blackguard, 
Raney,  to  have  taken  advantage  of  a  girl's  youth  and  ignor- 
ance. He's  a  blackguard  right  through  to  the  end!  He 
solemnly  promised  me  not  to  go  near  her  and  then  bursts 
in  the  moment  my  back's  turned.  He's  a  libertine,  a  liar — " 

"That's  no  objection  in  a  woman's  eyes.  Every  co- 
respondent is  all  that  and  perhaps  a  good  deal  more." 

"I'm  not  going  to  give  her  up." 

They  turned  into  Ryder  Street  and  walked  up  the  stairs 
to  Eric's  flat.  O'Rane  waited  in  the  hall  while  Eric  went 
into  Ivy's  bedroom.  She  was  sitting  up,  writing  on  her 
knees,  and,  as  he  came  in,  she  laid  down  her  pencil  and 
handed  him  the  letter.  Her  eye-lids  flickered,  and  he  could 
see  that  she  spoke  with  an  effort. 

"It's  to  Johnnie,"  she  explained.  "He  called  immediately 
after  you'd  gone,  but  I  told  the  nurse  to  say  I  couldn't  see 
him.  He's  just  sent  me  a  note.  .  .  What  did  the  doctor 
say,  Eric?" 

"He  didn't  add  much  to  what  he  told  me  last  night.  Do 
you  want  me  to  read  this,  Ivy  ?" 

"I  think  you'd  better.  I  told  Johnnie  that  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying  last  night,  when  I  promised  to  marry  him. 
I've  begged  him  not  to  worry  me — " 

Eric  fingered  the  letter  without  reading  it. 

"If  I  told  you  that  the  doctor  didn't  know  if  I  could  marry 
even  in  two  years,  what  would  you  say  ?,"  he  propounded. 

"Even !  .  • .  .  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Did  he  say  that  ? 
Eric,  tell  me!  You  frighten  me  when  you  won't  say  what's 
the  matter  with  you." 

He  pulled  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  sat  down, 
holding  her  hand. 

"I  can't  tell  you  anything  very  definite,"  he  answered. 


29o  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

"But  I'm  trying  to  look  at  all  possibilities.  I  feel  responsible 
for  you,  Ivy.  I  want  to  think  what's  the  best  for  you.  If 
Gaisford  says  I  must  never  marry,  what  will  you  do  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  frightened  eyes,  and  he  saw  that 
her  lips  were  trembling.  Two  slow  tears  rolled  down  her 
cheeks  and  splashed  on  to  his  hand.  So  she  had  cried  once 
at  the  opera,  and  her  tears  had  melted  him.  Now  they 
seemed  to  eat  into  his  hand  like  acid. 

"I  shan't  die,  if  I  can  help  it,  Ivy,"  he  added.  "If  I  did, 
or  if  I  couldn't  marry  you,  what  would  you  do  ?  Would  you 
marry  Gaymer?" 

"Oh,  Eric,  don't  be  cruel!  Are  you  doing  this  just  to 
frighten  me?" 

"No !  I'm  thinking  of  your  future.  If  you  married  him, 
do  you  feel  that  you'd  both  be  happy?" 

"I  should  never  be  happy,  if  anything  happened  to  you." 

"Darling  Ivy,  leave  me  out  for  a  minute !  Imagine  you'd 
never  met  me.  Do  you  feel  that  you'd  be  happy  with  him?" 

"If  I'd  never  met  you?  ...     But,  Eric—" 

"You  really  love  him,  Ivy?  Do  you  love  him  more  than 
me?" 

"Don't  torture  me !  I  could  never  love  any  one  as  I  love 
you.  Johnnie's  quite  different ;  I  feel  quite  differently  about 
him.  .  .  Eric,  it  isn't  kind  not  to  tell  me." 

She  drew  her  hand  back  and  leaned  forward,  throwing 
her  arms  round  his  neck.  He  kissed  her  forehead  and  dried 
the  tear-rivulets  on  her  cheeks.  Then  he  unlocked  her 
fingers  and  stood  up,  turning  half  away. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Ivy,"  he  said.  "I  asked  you  this  morning 
whether  you'd  wait  two  years — " 

"I  will !    You  know  I  will !" 

"I  know  you  will!  Bless  you!  But  two  years  are  no 
good.  I  Hope  to  be  very  much  better  by  then,  but  I  shall 
never  be  well  enough  to  marry.  .  .  Gaisford  t-told  me  so 
this  afternoon,"  he  added  with  deliberation. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 

VIGIL 

"He  could  not,   Himself,   make  a  second   self 
To  be  His  mate ;  as  well  have  made  Himself : 
He  would  not  make  what  He  mislikes  or  slights, 
An  eyesore  to  Him,  or  not  worth  His  pains : 
But  did,    in   envy,   listlessness   or   sport, 
Make  what  Himself  would  fain,  m  a  manner,  be— 
Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 
Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all  the  while, 
Things  he  admires  and  mocks  too, — that  is  it. 
Because,  so  brave,  so  better  though  they  be, 
It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague.   .    . 

'Thinketh,  such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  Him, 
Nor  kind,  nor  cruel :     He  is  strong  and  Lord. 
'Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder  crabs 
That  march  now  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea. 
'Let  twenty  pass,  and  stone  the  twenty-first, 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so.  .  ." 

ROBERT  BROWNING:     "CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS." 

WHEN  Eric  came  back  to  the  hall,  he  was  startled  to  find 
O'Rane  still  sitting  there. 

"I'd  entirely  forgotten  about  you,"  he  exclaimed.  "Have 
I  been  a  frightful  time?  You  must  forgive  me.  I'm  becom- 
ing appallingly  absent-minded." 

"You  haven't  been  very  long,"  answered  O'Rane ;  then  he 
added  inconsequently,  "I  was  beginning  to  fear  she  might  not 
be  so  well." 

"A  bit  unstrung.  I  just  want  to  scribble  a  note  to  Gais- 
f ord ;  then  I  shall  be  ready  for  dinner." 

He  hurried  into  the  library,  tripped  over  an  unseen  ob- 
stacle and  had  almost  overbalanced  before  he  discovered  that 
the  lights  were  not  turned  on. 

"I  have  told  Ivy  that  you  say  I  shall  never  be  well  enough 

291 


292  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

to  marry,"  he  wrote.  "This  may  surprise  you,  but  you  must 
back  me  up.  I'm  going  away  as  soon  as  I  can  get  packed  and 
tidied  up;  I  shall  be  away  for  at  least  your  two  years.  I  want 
you  to  tell  people  that  it's  not  serious,  but  I  also  want  you  to 
convince  Ivy  that  it's  all  over.  I'll  give  you  the  whole  story 
if  you  want  it;  perhaps  it's  enough  for  the  present  to  say 
that  I  want  above  all  things  to  give  her  a  free  hand.  After 
all,  if  she's  still  unmarried  in  two  years'  time  and  if  I'm  a 
whole  man  by  then,  we  can  revise  our  decision.  She's  too 
young  to  be  tied  for  two  years.  You  might  burn  this  letter 
and  keep  the  contents  to  yourself." 

Ivy  had  been  crying  as  though  her  heart  would  break ;  and 
Eric  had  only  left  her  room  because  his  presence  seemed  to 
excite  her  to  fresh  outbursts,  and  she  was  reacting  on  him. 
While  he  wrote  his  letter,  the  long-drawn  breathless  sobs 
seemed  to  fill  the  library — as  they  had  filled  it  once  before  on 
the  night  when  he  debated  with  Gaisford  whether  he  should 
come  to  her  rescue — ;  it  was  imagination,  of  course,  but  he 
wanted  to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible,  as  far  as  possible. 
And  assuredly  there  must  be  no  question  of  seeing  her 
again.  .  .  . 

He  walked  to  the  door  and  clutched  at  the  handle  as  he 
listened.  The  sobbing  continued,  and  he  wondered  how  long 
he  would  have  to  hear  it.  It  was  almost  too  clear  to  be 
imaginary ;  O'Rane  must  be  hearing  it,  too.  .  .  So  might  a 
man  go  on  hearing  that  one  accusing  sound  until  he  went 
mad.  He  filled  his  lungs  and  walked  erect  into  the  hall. 

"I'm  ready  now,"  he  said. 

O'Rane  felt  for  his  hat  and  stood  up. 

"You  think  it's  all  right  to  leave  her  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why  not?    The  nurse  is  somewhere  about." 

"She  seems — rather  upset." 

The  crying  was  real,  then,  and  some  one  else  could  hear 
it.  O'Rane  spoke  caustically,  as  though  he  were  re- 
sponsible. .  .  . 


VIGIL  293 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  only  make  her  worse.  .  .  Shall  we 
start?  I'll  give  you  a  hand,  if  I  may;  the  stairs  are  rather 
tricky.  Are  we  going  to  your  place,  or  will  you  come  with 
me  to  the  club  ?  I  don't  want  to  meet  a  lot  of  people.  You 
said  we  should  be  by  ourselves?" 

One  jerky  question  tumbled  on  to  the  heels  of  another. 
It  was  idle  for  Eric  to  pretend  that  nothing  had  happened; 
it  was  impossible  to  remain  silent. 

"It'll  be  only  the  two  of  us,"  said  O'Rane. 

"Let's  find  a  taxi." 

They  had  driven  half-way  to  O'Rane's  house  in  West- 
minster, when  Eric  leaned  through  the  window  without 
warning  and  countermanded  the  order. 

"The  club  will  be  better,"  he  explained.  "We  may  meet 
my  agent,  Grierson,  and  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  him. 
You  don't  mind?" 

"Not  a  bit.  .  .  I  think  I'd  better  take  charge,  Eric. 
First  of  all,  have  a  cigarette.  I  don't  carry  them  myself, 
I'm  afraid.  Then  don't  try  to  talk,  if  you  don't  feel  like  it; 
and  don't  try  to  keep  up  appearances  on  my  account.  I'm 
blind,  to  begin  with ;  and  I  know  what  you're  going  through. 
Give  me  your  hand.  That's  right.  .  .  Sorry !  I  didn't  mean 
to  hurt  you;  I  suppose  I've  rather  a  powerful  grip.  Now, 
you've  to  make  the  hell  of  a  big  effort — " 

"I've  made  it,"  Eric  interrupted  unsteadily. 

"You're  only  at  the  beginning.  I  take  it  you  gave  her 
free  choice?" 

"No,  I  decided  for  her.  I  had  a  moment  of  revelation 
and  I  jumped  at  the  opportunity.  I  knew  that,  if  I  didn't 
take  it  then,  I  should  go  on  struggling  until  I  could  never 
take  it.  I  cut  my  own  throat.  I  lied  to  her  and  said  that 
I'd  been  forbidden  even  to  think  of  marrying — ever.  That 
letter  was  to  square  Gaisf  ord.  She's  upset — on  my  account ; 
but  she'll  forget  it  the  first  time  she  sees  Gaymer.  That 
brute.  .  .  And  a  month  ago  she  was  begging  me  to  marry 


294  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

her  without  waiting,  because  she  was  so  sure  of  herself. 
I've  taken  your  advice,  Raney,  with — interest.  I've  handed 
her  over  without  a  fight.  It's  been  a — most  valuable  ex- 
perience,— something  to  think  about  when  I'm  abroad.  I 
feel  there's  a  tremendous  joke  somewhere,  only  I  can't  see 
it.  Shall  we  telephone  to  Gaymer  and  see  if  he  can  help  us? 
And  she's  crying  because  I've  been  so  good  to  her,  she  can't 
bear  to  think  I'm  ill,  I  must  know  she'll  wait  till  I'm  well.  .  . 
You  can  see  the  fun  of  it,  can't  you,  Raney  ?  The  rollicking 
farce?  If  I  died,  she'd  die  too;  a  perfect  sentiment.  We're 
just  by  Buckingham  Palace  now.  I  was  taking  her  home 
from  the  opera,  and  Gaymer  passed  us  in  a  car — on  this  spot 
— with  another  woman.  Gaymer,  who's  going  to  make  her 
happy!  And  she  went  and  bearded  him  in  his  own  rooms; 
and  he  turned  her  out !  .  .  .  Just  on  this  spot.  .  .  That  was 
the  beginning  of  everything.  She'll  tell  you  that,  when  she 
got  home  that  night,  she  prayed  that  she' might  die.  .  .  ." 

The  taxi  swerved  to  the  kerb  and  stopped  with  a  jerk. 
O'Rane  relaxed  his  grip  on  Eric's  hand  and  opened  the  door 
to  let  out  the  dog. 

"A  big  effort !,"  he  whispered. 

The  lights  of  the  hall  and  the  hum  of  conversation  in  the 
dining-room  steadied  Eric,  and  he  discussed  the  bill  of  fare 
with  a  show  of  interest,  even  stirring  himself  to  nod  or  wave 
a  hand  to  his  friends,  as  they  threaded  their  way  among  the 
tables.  Once  he  remembered  that  he  had  done  all  this  before, 
two  nights  ere  he  said  good-bye  to  Barbara  Neave  and  to 
England.  It  would  have  been  better,  if  he  had  never  come 
back;  he  never  meant  to  come  back,  but  he  had  been  sum- 
moned. It  was  not  his  fault ;  looking  back  on  the  past  two 
months,  could  any  one  say  that  he  was  to  blame  for  any- 
thing? Was  he  to  blame  for  sacrificing  himself  now?  Did 
it  matter  what  any  one  did,  so  long  as  Providence  punished 
folly  and  wisdom  equally?  That  was  where  God  came  in. 


VIGIL  295 

Perhaps  that  was  the  secret  of  this  incomparable  joke  which 
he  felt  without  understanding.  .  .  . 

"I  know  now  why  Adam  and  Eve  were  turned  out  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden !,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly. 

O'Rane  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Is  this  a  new  riddle?,"  he  asked. 

"It's  the  oldest  riddle  in  the  world.  They  knew  the  dif- 
ference between  good  and  evil ;  God  never  did.  I  sometimes 
wonder  why  any  of  us  try  to  lead  a  decent  life  or  to  do  the 
right  thing.  It  doesn't  pay  in  this  world,  and  I'm  sure  God 
only  despises  you  in  the  next.  .  .  You'd  like  a  glass  of 
sherry,  wouldn't  you?,"  he  added,  as  their  waiter  came 
within  ear-shot. 

"I  hardly  ever  touch  wine,  thanks.  .  ."  O'Rane  listened 
for  a  moment  to  the  departing  footsteps,  then  lowered  his 
voice.  "If  you  feel  like  that,  Eric,  you've  only  to  go  back 
and  say  that  you  want  to  be  married  at  once.  She'll  do  it. 
If  you  told  her  you  were  going  straight  to  a  sanatorium — 
for  the  rest  of  your  life — ,  you've  only  to  ask  her  and  she'll 
go  with  you.  If  you  play  that  card,  no  one  in  the  world  can 
beat  you.  And  you  know  it." 

There  was  a  long  silence  only  broken  by  the  drumming  of 
nervous  fingers  on  the  table. 

"Yes.     I  know  it,"  Eric  answered. 

"Why  don't  you  play  it?" 

"Perhaps  I  don't  much  care  about  the  idea  of  bringing  con- 
sumptive children  into  the  world." 

"She'll  wait  till  you're  cured.  .  .  Don't  be  a  humbug, 
Eric.  You're  going  to  spoil  everything,  if  you  become  bitter. 
Cynicism  is  a  young  man's  substitute  for  knowledge.  We're 
not  boys.  We  can  see  this  dispassionately ;  you've  done  the 
right  thing,  the  only  possible  thing,  the  inevitable  thing.  It 
hurts,  but  I  can  shew  you  a  way  of  making  it  hurt  less.  At 
present  you're  seeing  nothing  but  blackness  ahead,  but,  if 


296  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

you'll  come  for  a  walk  with  me  after  dinner,  I'll  put  some- 
thing in  place  of  all  you  think  you're  losing." 

"I  shall  be  interested  to  see  you  try." 

"My  dear  Eric,  I  shall  succeed!  I've  never  doubted  in 
all  my  life.  Will  you  put  yourself  in  my  hands?  We 
won't  discuss  it  now,  because  I  want  to  hear  about  your  im- 
mediate plans.  You'll  be  away  for  two  years?  Have  you 
decided  when  you  start  and  where  you're  going?" 

Eric  had  thought  only  that  he  was  losing  this  girl  whom 
he  had  so  unnecessarily  allowed  himself  to  love.  He  did  not 
want  to  talk  about  the  islands  of  the  South  Pacific,  but 
O'Rane  would  not  leave  him  alone.  It  was  unseemly  and 
brutal,  this  torrent  of  questions  from  a  man  who  was  in  no 
way  concerned.  O'Rane  knew  some  one  who  would  be  only 
too  pleased  to  take  over  the  lease  of  the  Ryder  Street  flat ; 
he  knew  some  one  else  who  might  usefully  be  employed  to 
spread  the  news  of  his  departure  through  the  Press;  he 
knew  men  at  every  stopping-place  between  Liverpool  and 
the  Marquesas,  between  Southampton  and  the  Cape,  and 
letters  of  introduction  were  to  be  had  for  the  asking. 

"You're  giving  me  a  wonderful  funeral,"  said  Eric. 

The  words  were  rudely  conceived  and  rudely  spoken.  It 
was  a  refinement  of  cruelty  to  be  whipped  with  questions, 
when  his  brain  was  too  much  numbed  to  think  of  anything 
but  Ivy. 

"Hardly  a  funeral.  But  you've  closed  one  chapter,  and  I 
want  you  to  begin  the  next.  It  doesn't  do  any  good  to 
curse  your  luck.  When  I  had  this  accident  to  my  eyes,  I 
walked  straight  out  of  hospital  into  my  next  job.  Kind 
friends  wanted  to  drive  me  in  cars  or  to  take  my  arm,  but 
I  had  to  start  on  my  own  some  time.  There's  such  a  lot  to 
be  done  in  life  that  we've  no  leisure  for  thinking  what  fun 
it  would  be  to  have  three  hands  or  a  million  pounds  a 
minute.  When  King  David  was  punished  in  the  person  of 
his  son,  he  did  everything  in  his  power  to  keep  the  boy 


VIGIL  297 

alive;  when  once  the  boy  was  dead,  he  rose  up  and  washed 
his  face  and  put  off  all  the  signs  of  mourning  and  started 
on  his  next  job.  If  you  don't  begin  to-night,  it'll  be  harder 
to  begin  to-morrow." 

"But  there's  not  very  much  I  can  do  to-night,"  Eric  ob- 
jected wearily. 

"I  assure  you  there  is.  Did  you  find  out  whether  your 
agent  was  in  the  club  ?  Well,  get  hold  of  him  and  make  your 
arrangements.  I  can't  help  there,  because  I  know  nothing 
about  the  subject,  but  you  and  he  must  know  what  you  fixed 
when  you  went  abroad  before.  In  the  meantime  I'll  get  hold 
of  my  tame  journalist.  I'm  going  to  say  simply  that  you're 
going  abroad  immediately  for  the  good  of  your  health;  I 
shan't  say  where  or  how  long  for.  And  the  news  won't  ap- 
pear till  the  day  after  to-morrow,  so  you'll  have  time  to  warn 
your  people.  Then  we'll  meet — is  half  an  hour  long  enough 
for  you  ? — ,  and  I  shall  have  a  lot  for  you  to  do.  I'm  going 
to  find  out  if  Gaymer's  at  home — 

"I'm  not  going  to  see  him!,"  Eric  broke  in. 

O'Rane  looked  up,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  smiling  to 
himself : 

"If  I  convince  you  that  you  can  contribute  in  any  way  to 
that  girl's  happiness  ?  Dear  man,  don't  be  absurd !  I'm  as- 
suming that  you  love  her.  That  means  that  you'll  do  every- 
thing you  can  for  her  and  that  you'll  rack  your  brains  to 
think  of  new  things.  D'you  imagine  that  you've  done  your 
utmost  for  her  by  clearing  out  of  Gaymer's  way — with  the 
worst  possible  grace — and  wishing  them  both  joy  of  the 
other?  You're  going  to  help  this  thing  through.  You're 
going  to  set  her  mind  at  rest,  you're  going  to  shake  hands 
with  him,  you're  going  to  be  the  man  they  can  both  turn 
to.  .  .  This  has  to  be  done  with  a  bit  of  a  gesture,  Eric." 

Forty  minutes  later  they  were  walking  towards  Bucking- 
ham Gate.  Eric  did  not  know  what  he  was  expected  to  say 
or  do,  but  O'Rane  assured  him  that  everything  would  be 


298  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

quite  easy,  and  he  was  too  tired  to  assert  himself.  He  hoped 
faintly  that  Gaymer  would  be  sober  and  that  they  would  have 
no  duel  of  words  as  on  the  occasion  of  his  two  other  visits  to 
the  flat.  Perhaps  O'Rane  would  keep  the  peace.  ... 

Gaymer  opened  the  door  himself,  nodded  perfunctorily  to 
Eric  and  led  the  way  to  his  smoking-room.  He  could  not 
wholly  conceal  his  surprise  at  their  coming;  and  he  busied 
himself  unduly  with  chairs,  cigars  and  offers  of  drink  until 
one  of  his  visitors  should  think  fit  to  explain  the  purpose  of 
the  meeting.  Each  waited  for  his  neighbour  to  speak  first; 
the  last  tumbler  and  cigar  were  distributed,  and  there  was  no 
pretext  for  further  delay.  When  the  silence  became  un- 
bearable, O'Rane  turned  enquiringly  to  Eric. 

"You  were  going  to  make  a  proposal  ?,"  he  began. 

"No.  I  came  here,  because  you  asked  me  to.  I  don't  in 
the  least  know  what  you  want  me  to  say." 

"I  wanted  you  to  explain;  Gaymer's  in  the  dark  still. 
Shall  I  give  him  an  outline?.  .  .  Gaymer,  you  both  of  you 
love  Miss  Maitland,  but  you  can't  both  of  you  marry  her. 
I  don't  think  we  need  consider  rights  or  claims,  because — 
quite  obviously — neither  of  you  would  marry  her  against  her 
will—" 

"I  have  every  intention  of  marrying  her,"  Gaymer  in- 
terrupted quietly. 

"Not  against  her  will.  Lane  or  I  have  only  to  say  a  word 
to  her,  and  she'd  marry  him.  I'm  not  bluffing,  Gaymer; 
that's  quite  certain.  Lane  doesn't  want  to  force  her  hand, 
he  wants  her  to  marry  the  man  who'll  make  her  happiest. 
Don't  you  want  the  same?  This  is  the  judgement  of  Solo- 
mon, you  know.  Do  you  put  yourself  before  her?  If  you 
do,  you  don't  care  for  her,  you  don't  deserve  her;  and, 
Gaymer,  you  won't  get  her." 

Gaymer  kicked  his  heels  on  to  the  edge  of  a  chair  and 
slid  lower  into  his  corner  of  the  sofa : 


VIGIL  299 

"If  she  tries  to  marry  Lane  or  any  one  else,  I  can  have 
her  back — in  the  heel  of  my  first — within  a  week." 

"I  can't  agree,"  said  O'Rane.  "There  are  certain  new 
factors  of  which  you  know  nothing.  But,  if  it  were  all 
true,  would  you  try  to  marry  her  against  her  will?" 

"No—" 

"Come!    That's  better." 

"But  it's  not  against  her  will.  She  knows  that.  Simply 
looking  at  her  happiness — " 

"You  won't  make  her  very  happy  in  your  present  state, 
Gaymer,"  said  O'Rane  sharply.  "It's  more  than  time  for 
you  to  steady  down  and  find  some  work  to  do." 

"That's  my  business,"  murmured  Gaymer  unamiably. 

"No,  it's  ours,  if  you  want  our  help.  Lane  has  seen  her 
this  evening;  he's  come  to  the  conclusion  that  she  wants  to 
marry  you  rather  than  him.  He's  given  way  in  your  favour. 
It's  not  an  easy  thing  to  do,  it's  not  an  easy  position  for  her ; 
she's  torn  in  two  and  very  unhappy.  Lane's  going  abroad — 
for  his  health.  He's  leaving  her  on  such  terms  that  she  can 
do  what  she  likes  without  having  any  cause  to  reproach  her- 
self ;  she  can  marry  you  with  a  good  conscience.  And  you've 
to  shew  that  you're  worthy  of  what's  being  done  for  you; 
she's  being  made  over  to  your  care.  How  long  will  it  take 
you  to  find  some  work?" 

Gaymer  looked  uncomprehendingly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  stupidly. 

O'Rane  turned  to  Eric. 

"Have  you  any  money  ?,"  he  asked. 

"How  much  do  you  want?,"  said  Eric. 

"Well,  how  much  can  you  spare?  You  want  to  make  a 
success  of  this,  don't  you?  If  there's  a  question  of  their 
wanting  money  to  marry  on,  capital  to  start  in  business,  you 
know,  you  could  supply  it?  You  must  have  made  a  great 
deal  the  last  few  years ;  and  you  wouldn't  like  Miss  Maitland 
to  go  short.  Can  I  leave  the  question  in  your  hands?" 


300  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

Eric  felt  an  insane  impulse  to  laugh,  but  O'Rane's  face 
was  serious. 

"I  hardly  feel — ,"  he  began. 

"But  you're  going  to  do  everything  in  your  power  to  make 
it  a  success !  They  must  have  money,  and  I  understand  the 
judge  is  rather  a  screw.  By  the  way,  we  shall  have  to  put 
some  pressure  on  him.  He's  got  a  great  opinion  of  you, 
Eric.  I  met  him  at  dinner  the  other  night,  and  he  was  talk- 
ing very  warmly  about  you.  You  will  have  to  do  some 
propaganda  for  Gaymer.  And  then  we  must  find  regular 
work.  .  .  Can  you  manage  five  hundred  a  year  for  a  few 
years  ?" 

As  Eric  hesitated  in  bewilderment,  Gaymer  intervened. 

"We  needn't  discuss  this,"  he  said. 

"If  you  don't  take  it,  I'll  see  that  your  wife  does,"  said 
O'Rane.  "You  could  manage  that,  Eric?" 

"I  could." 

"Then  you  will?" 

Eric  felt  himself  being  hypnotized.  A  voice  that  was  not 
under  his  control  answered: 

"I  will." 

O'Rane  stood  up  and  called  his  dog. 

"Lane  has  to  go  abroad  for  his  lungs,"  he  explained. 
"He'll  be  all  right  in  a  year  or  two's  time,  but  he's  told  Miss 
Maitland  that  he'll  never  be  in  a  condition  to  marry;  you 
must  back  up  the  story.  Now  that's  pretty  well  all.  Lane 
will  be  busy  the  next  few  days,  so  you'd  better  not  go  near 
his  place.  After  that,  I  understand  that  Miss  Maitland  will 
have  to  go  away  to  the  country  for  a  bit.  When  she  comes 
back,  you  can  see  her.  If  she  shews  any  hesitation,  you  can 
tell  her  that  Lane  himself  provided  the  money  for  you  to 
marry  her  on.  That'll  fix  that.  .  .  Now  we  must  be 
going." 

He  walked  to  the  door  and  felt  for  the  handle.  Eric 
rose  wearily  and  followed  him,  hardly  troubling  to  wonder 


VIGIL  301 

where  he  was  being  taken.  Gaymer  sat  biting  his  nails  and 
staring  at  the  floor. 

"Good-bye,"  O'Rane  called  from  the  door. 

There  was  an  inarticulate  grunt  from  the  sofa.  Eric  was 
halfway  across  the  room,  but  he  hesitated  and  came  back  to 
Gaymer. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  shall  see  you  again,"  he  said.  "Good- 
bye. Good  luck." 

O'Rane  was  humming  to  himself  in  the  hall.  Gaymer 
looked  towards  the  door;  then  his  eyes  swept  slowly  round 
on  a  level  with  Eric's  waist;  they  raised  themselves  diffi- 
dently, and  he  saw  a  hand  stretched  out  to  him. 

"Good-bye,  Lane,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  shake  hands?" 

"Why?  We're  not  friends.  And  you've  not  given  me 
anything." 

The  humming  ceased,  and  O'Rane  called  out  to  know 
whether  Eric  was  coming. 

"I'm  too  tired  to  wrangle,"  sighed  Eric.  "Don't  shake 
hands,  if  you  don't  want  to.  Good-bye  again." 

"Good-bye." 

Eric's  hand  fell  to  his  side,  and  he  walked  slowly  to  the 
door  and  across  the  hall. 

"What  d'you  want  me  to  do  now?,"  he  asked  dully. 

"I'll  take  you  home,"  answered  O'Rane.  "I'm  afraid 
Gaymer  hasn't  learned  the  art  of  being  gracious;  and  he'll 
be  punished  for  it.  I'm  prepared  to  bet  he's  being  punished 
now.  Whenever  he  looks  at  his  wife,  he'll  remember  that 
you  behaved  well  and  he  didn't.  He'll  try  to  forget  it ;  but 
she  won't  let  him,  she'll  always  know  that,  when  you  found 
you  couldn't  marry  her  yourself,  you  strained  every  nerve  to 
get  her  happily  married  to  the  man  she  loved  better  than  you. 
If  anything  makes  Gaymer  run  straight,  it'll  be  that  re- 
flection. You've  behaved  uncommonly  well,  Eric,  if  I  may 
say  so,  though  not  better  than  she  deserved ;  you're  giving  up 


302  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

everything  to  her,  but  she  was  ready  to  give  up  everything  to 
you.  I've  not  finished  with  you  yet ;  you've  still  to  give  your 
blessing  to  the  marriage.  Tell  her  quite  simply  that,  as  you 
can't  marry  her  yourself —  Yes,  you  must  do  that.  .  .  And 
that's  all  you  can  do.  If  they're  coming  to  grief,  you  can't 
stop  them;  you've  already  done  what  only  one  man  in  ten 
million  would  do.  In  future — you're  funking  the  future, 
aren't  you?" 

"It  seems  a  little — purposeless,"  said  Eric. 

He  wondered  whether  his  voice  trembled  as  much  as  his 
lips. 

"One  gets  moments  like  that.  It's  all  due  to  our  literary 
conception  of  beginnings  and  ends.  How  long  have  we 
known  each  other?  Fifteen  years?  D'you  remember  your 
last  Phoenix  Club  dinner  with  Sinclair  as  president?  Jim 
Loring  was  there ;  and  George  Oakleigh ;  and  Jack  Waring. 
In  those  days  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  a  great  career ;  I  was 
going  to  make  pots  of  money  and  I  was  going  to  be  the  great 
democratic  leader.  .  .  Then  the  war  came,  just  when  I'd 
made  the  money  and  lost  it ;  one  was  incapacitated  to  a  certain 
extent.  .  .  But,  even  when  I  was  lying  in  hospital,  I  never 
said  'This  is  the  end'.  .  .  You're  a  bit  incapacitated,  but 
this  isn't  the  end;  you've  just  been  pulled  up  by  a  big  ob- 
stacle and  you've  overdone  it.  I  said  I'd  give  you  something 
in  place  of  all  you  were  losing.  Well,  haven't  I?  You 
could  have  kept  that  girl,  but  you've  done  everything — at  the 
heaviest  possible  cost — to  serve  her  interests.  You've  that 
to  be  proud  of.  What  are  the  things  one  has  to  overcome  be- 
fore one  can  attain  greatness  of  spirit  ?  Greed,  fear,  selfish- 
ness ?  You've  done  that.  Weakness  ?.  .  .  I  keep  on  think- 
ing of  Sinclair's  dinner-party.  You  know  that  my  wife  was 
engaged  to  Jim  .Loring  before  she  married  me;  and  you  and 
Jack  Waring  were  both  in  love  with  Barbara  Neave  before 
she  married  George.  'Curious  what  havoc  one  or  two  women 
can  make  in  half  a  dozen  men's  lives !  It  came  near  to 


VIGIL  303 

beating  Jim;  I  believe  it  did  beat  Waring.  But  are  you 
going  to  be  beaten  and  to  let  your  life  be  spoiled  for  a 
woman  ?  You're  bigger  than  either  of  those  two ;  you've  had 
ill-health  to  contend  with  all  your  life  and  you've  made  a 
world-wide  reputation  for  yourself  in  spite  of  it.  And  in 
those  days  Woman  for  us  was  a  girl  of  eighteen  that  we 
flirted  with  on  the  stairs  at  a  dance.  .  .  We  underestimate 
them  at  first,  then  we  exaggerate  them  enormously,  then  we 
get  them  into  perspective ;  but  Woman  is  not  a  man's  chief 
business  in  his  prime.  Did  you  plan  a  wonderful  career  for 
yourself  at  that  dinner?  I  told  you  even  then  that  you  were 
the  genius  among  us  all." 

Eric  looked  back  with  a  shudder  over  the  devastation  of 
fifteen  years  to  his  last  night  as  an  undergraduate  at  Oxford. 

"I  suppose  I  did.  .  .  Yes,  it  was  a  solemn  moment,  just 
when  we  were  going  down.  I  dreamed  that  one  day  I 
should  have  the  whole  world  at  my  feet.  People  would 
whisper  who  I  was  when  I  came  into  a  room.  .  .  I  suppose 
I've  got  that.  But  it's  so  small.  I'm  genuinely  surprised 
when  I  find  that  any  one's  heard  of  me.  I'm  terrified  when 
people  come  up  and  congratulate  me  on  my  plays.  .  .  If 
that's  fame.  .  .  I  think  it  was  when  I  found  how  unsatisfy- 
ing it  was  that  I  began  to  yearn  for  something  more.  .  . 
You  haven't  told  me  how  I'm  going  to  keep  myself  amused 
for  the  next  two  years,  Raney.  I  shall  be  allowed  to  do  very 
little  work." 

"You  won't  be  amused.  But  you  may  be  consoled  to  think 
that  your  soul's  been  in  danger  and  that  you've  saved  it  by 
sacrifice.  It  was  touch-and-go  whether  you  spoiled  that 
girl's  life." 

"And  I've  given  her  life  to  Gaymer  to  spoil." 

"If  he  must.  But  you've  set  him  an  example  that  he 
won't  easily  forget.  I  still  believe  in  sudden  conversions; 
and  I  expect  to  find  him  a  different  man  from  to-night.  You 


304  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

must  give  time  for  the  lesson  to  sink  in ;  he's  dazed  at  present 
—like  you." 

Loathing  of  Gaymer  was  a  feeling  which  Eric  could  not 
yet  repress ;  he  brought  his  stick  with  a  crash  on  to  the  pave- 
ment. 

"Not  he!  You  talked  about  a  'gesture/  and  he  knows 
it's  that  and  nothing  more.  I've  given  her  up  because  I 
couldn't  keep  her.  .  .  I  don't  complain.  She  had  her 
choice  of  us,  and  the  better  man  won." 

"It  was  the  better  man  who  made  the  gesture,"  said  O'Rane 
quietly.  "Is  this  the  house?  I  don't  think  I  can  do  any 
good  by  coming  in.  Make  her  see  that  you're  still  her  de- 
voted friend  and  that  love  has  no  necessary  connection  with 
marriage.  You  told  me  you  were  going  to  your  people  to- 
morrow? You'll  find  that  devilish  hard,  but  you  mustn't 
stand  any  sympathy  from  them,  or  you'll  begin  to  pity  your- 
self. Come  and  see  me,  as  soon  as  you're  back  in  London. 
I'll  organize  a  farewell  dinner  for  you.  A  bit  ironical  after 
your  send-off  in  New  York?  I  thought  I'd  discount  it  by 
saying  it  first.  .  .  Remember  you  have  to  go  through  this 
with  your  head  up.  Good-night." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Eric  gripped  it. 

"Good-night  and  thank  you.    Can  you  get  home  all  right?" 

"I'm  not  going  home.  I'm  going  to  do  some  propaganda 
with  this  girl's  father." 

O'Rane  turned  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  slipped  his  fingers 
through  the  dog's  collar  and  strode  towards  St.  James' 
Street.  Eric  watched  him  melting  from  sight  and  then 
walked  upstairs.  He  tried  to  make  a  picturesque  comparison 
between  his  own  disappearance  into  the  solitude  of  California 
and  O'Rane's  eternal  solitude  of  blindness ;  he  wondered  why 
any  one  troubled  to  advise  and  guide  him,  why  he  so  tamely 
submitted.  What  was  the  sum  of  all  this  counsel?.  .  .  He 
was  inexpressibly  tired.  And  it  was  ironical  that  he  should 


VIGIL  305 

be  spending  another  night  so  close  to  Ivy  when  he  had  re- 
nounced her. 

The  light  was  burning  in  her  room,  and  after  some  hesita- 
tion he  put  his  head  in  at  the  door.  She  seemed  to  be  sleep- 
ing, but  awoke  as  he  looked  at  her  and  cried  out  to  know 
where  he  had  been. 

"I  was  dining  with  O'Rane,"  he  said.  "I  went  away,  Ivy, 
because  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  you  crying.  And  I  was  a  bit 
unnerved  myself.  It's  done  me  good,  talking  to  him.  He's 
so  extraordinarily  plucky  himself  and  he's  never  in  any  kind 
of  doubt.  He's  cleared  my  mind  of  doubt.  If  I  could 
marry  you  without  doing  you  a  wrong,  there's  nothing  I 
wouldn't  do  to  bring  it  about.  You  know  that,  don't  you? 
I  love  you  more  than  any  one  in  the  world,  you'll  always  be 
my  own  child,  and  nothing  can  take  away  my  right  to  love 
you  and  try  to  protect  you.  But  we  can't  marry;  so  we 
mustn't  upset  each  other  by  thinking  about  it.  I'm  going 
away  to  try  and  get  cured,  and  you  must  get  well  yourself 
and  make  your  own  life  just  as  though  we'd  never  thought 
of  marrying.  You  remember  that  I  made  a  will  some  weeks 
ago  ?  I'm  arranging  for  certain  money  to  be  paid  you — " 

"Eric !" 

"Yes.  That'll  make  you  independent.  I  want  to  see  you 
happily  married.  You  told  me  that,  if  I  were  dead  or  if 
we'd  never  met,  you'd  probably  marry  John  Gaymer.  I  want 
you  to  pretend  that  we've  never  met.  I  hate  to  think  of 
giving  any  one  else  the  right  to  take  care  of  you,  but  I  can't 
do  it  from  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  .  .  You've  been 
a  wonderful  thing  in  my  life,  a  little  fairy  that  walked  in  out 
of  the  street.  .  .  I  shall  expect  to  hear  everything  that  you 
do  and  how  you're  getting  on.  I'm  going  to  get  quite  well, 
but  a  man  with  weak  lungs  has  no  business  to  marry.  And 
that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.  I'm  going  down  to- 
morrow to  tell  my  people.  .  .  If  ever  you  need  help,  Ivy, 
you  can  call  on  me;  J'!l  come  back  from  California,  if  I  can 


306  THE  SECRET  VICTORY 

do  anything  for  you.  Now  I  mustn't  keep  you  awake,  or 
I  shall  get  into  trouble  with  Gaisford.  Promise  me  you 
won't  worry.  Promise  me  you  won't  make  yourself 
miserable.  .  .  Darling  Ivy,  you  mustn't  cry  again ;  I'm  los- 
ing more  than  you  are.  Don't  try  to  talk.  Just  kiss  me 
good-night.  May  God  bless  you,  Ivy,  and  make  you  very 
happy." 

As  he  untwined  her  arms  and  turned  out  the  light,  he 
could  hear  the  sobs  breaking  out  afresh.  They  followed  him 
across  the  hall  into  his  bedroom.  Nearly  three  years  earlier, 
when  he  had  said  good-bye  to  Barbara,  he  had  returned  home 
to  find  the  telephone  ringing  in  every  room  and  he  had 
muffled  the  bells  and  thrown  himself  half -undressed  on  his 
bed,  blind  and  mad  with  pain.  For  two  years  he  had  won- 
dered what  would  have  happened,  if  he  had  yielded  to 
temptation  and  spoken  to  her.  .  .  . 

The  sobbing  of  a  heart-broken  child  pursued  him,  though 
he  shut  his  door  and  buried  his  head  in  the  pillows.  O'Rane 
was  convinced  that  he  had  only  to  make  his  appeal,  to  trade 
on  his  own  health  and  beg  her  to  come  with  him.  .  .  . 

If  she  dreaded  the  appeal,  why  did  she  go  on  crying? 

He  tried  to  think  of  next  day's  meeting  with  his  mother. 
"No  danger.  .  .  I  assure  you  there's  nothing  to  worry 
about!  Ask  Gaisford,  if  you  don't  believe  me.  .  ."  And 
then,  as  in  a  careless  postscript :  "Of  course,  there  can  be  no 
question  of  marrying.  Just  as  well  we  found  out  in  time, 
wasn't  it?"  Would  his  mother  be  deceived?  He  would 
have  to  tell  her  in  that  quiet,  confidential  hour  when  his 
father  had  gone  to  bed;  he  would  surely  tell  her  in  his 
father's  drowsy,  smoke-laden  work-room  where  he  had  al- 
ready boasted — prematurely  enough  to  set  God  scheming 
against  him — that  he  would  make  an  effort  to  win,  that  he 
would  win,  that  he  had  won.  .  .  . 

If  indeed  he  had  won,  it  was  a  secret  victory;  and  Raney 
alone  knew  whom  he  had  met  and  overcome.  .  .  . 


VIGIL  307 

The  sobbing  still  haunted  him.  If  Ivy  dreaded  the  ap- 
peal, how  could  she  go  on  crying? 

He  threw  aside  the  pillows  and  walked  uncertainly  to  the 
door.  His  fingers  went  to  the  handle  and  drew  back  with- 
out touching  it,  went  forward  again,  tried  and  turned.  The 
door  opened,  and  he  could  hear  muffled  sobbing,  no  longer 
imaginary.  He  walked  on  tip-toe  half-way  across  the  hall, 
then  returned  and  stood  listening  in  the  open  door-way. 
Then  he  closed  the  door  and  locked  it. 

The  sobbing  grew  fainter  and  died  away. 


THE  END 


A    000046298     6 


